EMMA  McCHESNEY 
8  CO. 


A^L-A 


BY 

EDNA  FERBER 

AUTHOR  OF  "DAWN  O'HARA."   ''BUTTERED  SIDE  DOWN. 

"ROAST  BEEF   MEDIUM,"   "PERSONALITY  PLUS." 

ETC. 


WITH  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  J.  HENRY 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1915,  by 
INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


September,  1915 


'There  passed  from  her  white  fingers  to  his  brown  ones  that  which 
is  the  Esperanto  of  the  nations" — Page  30 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES  .         i 

II.    THANKS  TO,  Miss  MORRISSEY  .        .      42 

III.  A  CLOSER  CORPORATION        .  .        .       76 

IV.  BLUE   SERGE 109 

V.     "Hoops,   MY   DEAR!"         .  .         .142 

VI.     SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR   SKIN  .        .178 

VII.   AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA         .  .        .    207 


328788 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"There  passed  from  her  white  fingers  to  his  brown 

ones  that  which  is  the  Esperanto  of  the  nations  " 

Frontispiece 
FACING 

PAGE 

"He  gathered  Emma  McChesney  into  his  arms, 
quite  as  men  gather  the  clingingest  kind  of 
woman " 74 

"  'No;  I'm  like  you — an  elegant  lady  of  leisure  '  "   126 

"  'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I'm  to  be  the  entire 
audience  at  the  premiere  of  this  new  model?'  "  148 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 


BROADWAY    TO    BUENOS    AIRES 

THE  door  marked  "MRS.  MCCHESNEY" 
was  closed.  T.  A.  Buck,  president  of 
the  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company, 
coming  gaily  down  the  hall,  stopped  before  it, 
dismayed,  as  one  who,  with  a  spicy  bit  of  news 
at  his  tongue's  end,  is  met  with  rebuff  before 
the  first  syllable  is  voiced.  That  closed  door 
meant:  uBusy.  Keep  out" 

"She'll  be  reading  a  letter/'  T.  A.  Buck  told 
himself  grimly.  Then  he  turned  the  knob  and 
entered  his  partner's  office. 

Mrs.  Emma  McChesney  was  reading  a  let 
ter.  More  than  that,  she  was  poring  over  it  so 
that,  at  the  interruption,  she  glanced  up  in  a 
maddeningly  half-cocked  manner  which  con 
veyed  the  impression  that,  while  her  physical 

c  i  ] 


•::,  ,    EMMA  MeCHESNEY  &  CO. 

eye  beheld  the  intruder,  her  mental  eye  was  still 
on  the  letter. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  T.  A.  Buck  morosely. 

Emma  McChesney  put  down  the  letter  and 
smiled. 

"Sit  down — now  that  you're  in.  And  if  you 
expect  me  to  say,  'Knew  what?'  you're  doomed 
to  disappointment." 

T.  A.  Buck  remained  standing,  both  gloved 
hands  clasping  his  walking  stick  on  which  he 
leaned. 

"Every  time  I  come  into  this  office,  you're 
reading  the  latest  scrawl  from  your  son.  One 
would  think  Jock's  letters  were  deathless  mas 
terpieces.  I  believe  you  read  them  at  half-hour 
intervals  all  week,  and  on  Sunday  get  'em  all  out 
and  play  solitaire  with  them." 

Emma  McChesney's  smile  widened  frankly 
to  a  grin. 

"You  make  me  feel  like  a  cash-girl  who's  been 
caught  flirting  with  the  elevator  starter.  Have 
I  been  neglecting  business?" 

"Business  ?    No ;  you've  been  neglecting  me !" 

"Now,  T.  A.,  you've  just  come  from  the  tail 
or's,  and  I  suppose  it  didn't  fit  in  the  back." 

"It  isn't  that,"  interrupted  Buck,  "and  you 
[  2  ] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

know  it.  Look  here!  That  day  Jock  went 
away  and  we  came  back  to  the  office,  and  you 
said " 

"I  know  I  said  it,  T.  A.,  but  don't  remind 
me  of  it.  That  wasn't  a  fair  test.  I  had  just 
seen  Jock  leave  me  to  take  his  own  place  in  the 
world.  You  know  that  my  day  began  and 
ended  with  him.  He  was  my  reason  for  every 
thing.  When  I  saw  him  off  for  Chicago  that 
day,  and  knew  he  was  going  there  to  stay,  it 
seemed  a  million  miles  from  New  York.  I  was 
blue  and  lonely  and  heart-sick.  If  the  office- 
boy  had  thrown  a  kind  word  to  me  I'd  have 
broken  down  and  wept  on  his  shoulder." 

Buck,  still  standing,  looked  down  between 
narrowed  lids  at  his  business  partner. 

"Emma  McChesney,"  he  said  steadily,  "do 
you  mean  that?" 

Mrs.  McChesney,  the  straightforward, 
looked  up,  looked  down,  fiddled  with  the  letter 
in  her  hand. 

"Well — practically  yes — that  is — I  thought, 
now  that  you're  going  to  the  mountains  for  a 
month,  it  might  give  me  a  chance  to  think — 

"And  d'you  know  what  I'll  do  meanwhile, 
[  3  ] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

out  of  revenge  on  the  sex?  Fve  just  ordered 
three  suits  of  white  flannel,  and  I  shall  break 
every  feminine  heart  in  the  camp,  regardless — 
Oh,  say,  that's  what  I  came  in  to  tell  you! 
Guess  whom  I  saw  at  the  tailor's?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Bones,  whom  did  you,  and  so 
forth?" 

"Fat  Ed  Meyers.  I  just  glimpsed  him  in  one 
of  the  fitting-rooms.  And  they  were  draping 
him  in  white." 

Emma  McChesney  sat  up  with  a  jerk. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Sure?  There's  only  one  figure  like  that. 
He  had  the  thing  on  and  was  surveying  himself 
in  the  mirror — or  as  much  of  himself  as  could 
be  seen  in  one  ordinary  mirror.  In  that  white 
suit,  with  his  red  face  above  it,  he  looked  like 
those  pictures  you  see  labeled,  'Sunrise  on  Snow- 
covered  Mountain.'  ' 

"Did  he  see " 

"He  dodged  when  he  saw  me.  Actually! 
At  least,  he  seems  to  have  the  decency  to  be 
ashamed  of  the  deal  he  gave  us  when  he  left  us 
flat  in  the  thick  of  his  Middle  Western  trip  and 
went  back  to  the  Sans-Silk  Skirt  Company.  I 
wanted  him  to  know  I  had  seen  him.  As 
[4  ] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

I  passed,  I  said,  'You'll  mow  'em  down  in  those 
clothes,  Meyers.'  '  Buck  sat  down  in  his  leis 
urely  fashion,  and  laughed  his  low,  pleasant 
laugh.  "Can't  you  see  him,  Emma,  at  the  sea 
shore?" 

But  something  in  Emma  McChesney's  eyes, 
and  something  in  her  set,  unsmiling  face,  told 
him  that  she  was  not  seeing  seashores.  She  was 
staring  straight  at  him,  straight  through  him, 
miles  beyond  him.  There  was  about  her  that 
tense,  electric,  breathless  air  of  complete  de 
tachment,  which  always  enveloped  her  when 
her  lightning  mind  was  leaping  ahead  to  a  goal 
unguessed  by  the  slower  thinking. 

"What's  your  tailor's  name?" 

"Name?    Trotter.    Why?" 

Emma  McChesney  had  the  telephone  oper 
ator  before  he  could  finish. 

"Get  me  Trotter,  the  tailor,  T-r-o-double- 
t-e-r.  Say  I  want  to  speak  to  the  tailor  who 
fits  Mr.  Ed  Meyers,  of  the  Sans-Silk  Skirt  Com 
pany." 

T.  A.  Buck  leaned  forward,  mouth  open,  eyes 
wide.  "Well,  what  in  the  name  of " 

"I'll  let  you  know  in  a  minute.  Maybe  I'm 
wrong.  It's  just  one  of  my  hunches.  But  for 
t  5  ] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

ten  years  I  sold  Featherlooms  through  the  same 
territory  that  Ed  Meyers  was  covering  for  the 
Sans-Silk  Skirt  people.  It  didn't  take  me  ten 
years  to  learn  that  Fat  Ed  hadn't  the  decency 
to  be  ashamed  of  any  deal  he  turned,  no  matter 
how  raw.  And  let  me  tell  you,  T.  A. :  If  he 
dodged  when  he  saw  you  it  wasn't  because  he 
was  ashamed  of  having  played  us  low-down. 
He  was  contemplating  playing  lower-down. 
Of  course,  I  may  be " 

She  picked  up  the  receiver  in  answer  to  the 
bell.  Then,  sweetly,  her  calm  eyes  smiling  into 
Buck's  puzzled  ones : 

"Hello !  Is  this  Mr.  Meyers'  tailor?  I'm  to 
ask  if  you  are  sure  that  the  grade  he  se 
lected  is  the  proper  weight  for  the  tropics. 
What?  Oh,  you  say  you  assured  him  it  was  the 
weight  of  flannel  you  always  advise  for  South 
America.  And  you  said  they'd  be  ready  when? 
Next  week  ?  Thank  you." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver.  The  pupils  of  her 
eyes  were  dilated.  Her  cheeks  were  very  pink 
as  always  under  excitement.  She  stood  up,  her 
breath  coming  rather  quickly. 

"Hurray  for  the  hunch!  It  holds.  Fat  Ed 
Meyers  is  going  down  to  South  America  for  the 
[  6  ] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

Sans-Silk  Company.  It's  what  IVe  been  plan 
ning  to  do  for  the  last  six  months.  You  remem 
ber  I  spoke  of  it.  You  pooh-poohed  the  idea. 
It  means  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  to 
the  Sans-Silk  people  if  they  get  it.  But  they 
won't  get  it." 

T.  A.  Buck  stood  up  suddenly. 

"Look  here,  Emma !    If  you're " 

"I  certainly  am.  Nothing  can  stop  me.  The 
skirt  business  has  been — well,  you  know  what 
it's  been  for  the  last  two  years.  The  South 
American  boats  sail  twice  a  month.  Fat  Ed 
Meyers'  clothes  are  promised  for  next  week. 
That  means  he  isn't  sailing  until  week  after 
next.  But  the  next  boat  sails  in  three  days." 
She  picked  up  a  piece  of  paper  from  her  desk 
and  tossed  it  into  Buck's  hand.  "That's  the  let 
ter  I  was  reading  when  you  came  in.  No ;  don't 
read  it.  Let  me  tell  you  instead." 

Buck  threw  cane,  hat,  gloves,  and  letter  on 
the  broad  desk,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pock 
ets,  and  prepared  for  argument.  But  he  got 
only  as  far  as:  "But  I  won't  allow  it!  You 
couldn't  get  away  in  three  days,  at  any  rate. 
And  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  you'll  have  come 

to  your  senses,  and  besides " 

[  7  ] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"T.  A.,  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude.  But  here 
are  your  hat  and  stick  and  gloves.  It's  going  to 
take  me  just  forty-eight  hours  to  mobilize." 

"But,  Emma,  even  if  you  do  get  in  ahead  of 
Meyers,  it's  an  insane  idea.  A  woman  can't  go 
down  there  alone.  It  isn't  safe.  It's  bad 
enough  for  a  man  to  tackle  it.  Besides,  we're 
holding  our  own." 

"That's  just  it.  When  a  doctor  issues  a  bul 
letin  to  the  effect  that  the  patient  is  holding  his 
own,  you  may  have  noticed  that  the  relatives  al 
ways  begin  to  gather." 

"It's  a  bubble,  this  South  American  idea. 
Oshkosh  and  Southport  and  Altoona  money  has 
always  been  good  enough  for  us.  If  we  can 
keep  that  trade,  we  ought  to  be  thankful." 

Emma  McChesney  pushed  her  hair  back 
from  her  forehead  with  one  gesture  and  patted 
it  into  place  with  another.  Those  two  ges 
tures,  to  one  who  knew  her,  meant  loss  of  com 
posure  for  one  instant,  followed  by  the  quick 
regaining  of  it  the  next. 

"Let's  not  argue  about  it  now.    Suppose  we 

wait  until  to-morrow — when  it's  too  late.    I  am 

thankful  for  the  trade  we've  got.     But  I  don't 

want  to  be  narrow  about  it.     My  thanking  ca- 

[  8  ] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

pacity  is  such  that  I  can  stretch  it  out  to  cover 
some  things  we  haven't  got  yet.  I've  been  read 
ing  up  on  South  America." 

"Reading!"  put  in  Buck  hotly.  "What  ac 
tual  first-hand  information  can  you  get  about  a 
country  from  books?" 

"Well,  then,  I  haven't  only  been  reading. 
I've  been  talking  to  everyone  I  could  lay  my 
hands  on  who  has  been  down  there  and  who 
knows.  Those  South  American  women  love 
dress — especially  the  Argentines.  And  do  you 
know  what  they've  been  wearing?  Petticoats 
made  in  England !  You  know  what  that  means. 
An  English  woman  chooses  a  petticoat  like  she 
does  a  husband — for  life.  It  isn't  only  a  gar 
ment.  It's  a  shelter.  It's  built  like  a  tent.  If 
once  I  can  introduce  the  T.  A.  Buck  Feather- 
loom  petticoat  and  knickerbocker  into  sunny 
South  America,  they'll  use  those  English  and 
German  petticoats  for  linoleum  floor-coverings. 
Heaven  knows  they'll  fit  the  floor  better  than 
the  human  form !" 

But  Buck  was  unsmiling.  The  muscles  of  his 
jaw  were  tense. 

"I  won't  let  you  go.  Understand  that!  I 
won't  allow  it!" 

[  9  1 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"Tut,  tut,  T.  A. !  What  is  this?  Cave-man 
stuff?" 

uEmma,  I  tell  you  it's  dangerous.  It  isn't 
worth  the  risk,  no  matter  what  it  brings  us." 

Emma  McChesney  struck  an  attitude,  hand 
on  heart.  "  'Heaven  will  protect  the  working 
girrul,'  "  she  sang. 

Buck  grabbed  his  hat. 

"I'm  going  to  wire  Jock." 

"All  right!  That'll  save  me  fifty  cents.  Do 
you  know  what  he'll  wire  back?  'Go  to  it.  Get 
the  tango  on  its  native  tairn' — or  words  to  that 
effect." 

"Emma, use  a  little  logic  and  common  sense  !" 

There  was  a  note  in  Buck's  voice  that 
brought  a  quick  response  from  Mrs.  McChes 
ney.  She  dropped  her  little  air  of  gayety. 
The  pain  in  his  voice,  and  the  hurt  in  his  eyes, 
and  the  pleading  in  his  whole  attitude  banished 
the  smile  from  her  face.  It  had  not  been  much 
of  a  smile,  anyway.  T.  A.  knew  her  genuine 
smiles  well  enough  to  recognize  a  counterfeit  at 
sight.  And  Emma  McChesney  knew  that  he 
knew.  She  came  over  and  laid  a  hand  lightly 
on  his  arm. 

"T.  A.,  I  don't  know  anything  about  logic. 

[10] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

It  is  a  hot-house  plant.  But  common  sense  is  a 
field  flower,  and  I've  gathered  whole  bunches 
of  it  in  my  years  of  business  experience.  I'm 
not  going  down  to  South  America  for  a  lark. 
I'm  going  because  the  time  is  ripe  to  go.  I'm 
going  because  the  future  of  our  business  needs 
it.  I'm  going  because  it's  a  job  to  be  handled 
by  the  most  experienced  salesman  on  our  staff. 
And  I'm  just  that.  I  say  it  because  it's  true. 
Your  father,  T.  A.,  used  to  see  things  straighter 
and  farther  than  any  business  man  I  ever  knew. 
Since  his  death  made  me  a  partner  in  this  firm, 
I  find  myself,  when  I'm  troubled  or  puzzled, 
trying  to  see  a  situation  as  he'd  see  it  if  he  were 
alive.  It's  like  having  an  expert  stand  back  of 
you  in  a  game  of  cards,  showing  you  the  next 
move.  That's  the  way  I'm  playing  this  hand. 
And  I  think  we're  going  to  take  most  of  the 
tricks  away  from  Fat  Ed  Meyers." 

T.  A.  Buck's  eyes  traveled  from  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney's  earnest,  glowing  face  to  the  hand  that 
rested  on  his  arm.  He  reached  over  and  gently 
covered  that  hand  with  his  own. 

"I  suppose  you  must  be  right,  little  woman. 
You  always  are.  Dad  was  the  founder  of  this 
business.  It  was  the  pride  of  his  life.  That 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  & 

word  'founaer'  has  two  meanings.  I  never 
want  to  be  responsible  for  its  second  meaning 
in  connection  with  this  concern." 

uYou  never  will  be,  T.  A." 

"Net  with  y*u  at  the  helm."  He  smiled 
rather  sadly.  "I'm  a  g«*d,  •rdinary,  c«mm*n 
seaman.  But  youVe  got  imagination,  and  fore 
sight,  and  nerve,  and  daring,  and  that's  the  stuff 
that  admirals  are  made  of." 

"Bless  you,  T.  A. !  I  knew  you'd  see  the 
thing  as  I  do  after  the  first  shock  was  over.  It 
has  always  been  nip  and  tuck  between  the  Sans- 
Silk  Company  and  us.  You  gave  me  the  hint 
that  showed  me  their  plans.  Now  help  me  fol 
low  it  up." 

Buck  picked  up  his  hat,  squared  his  shoul 
ders  and  fumbled  with  his  gloves  like  a  bashful 
schoolboy. 

"Y*u — y*u  ctuldn't  kill  tw€  birds  with  «ne 
stone  on  this  trip,  could  you,  Mrs.  Mack?" 

Mrs.  McChesney,  back  at  her  desk  again, 
threw  him  an  inquiring  glance  over  her  shoul 
der. 

"You  might  make  it  a  combination  honey 
moon  and  Featherloom  expedition." 

"T.  A.  Buck!"  exclaimed  Emma  McChesney. 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

Then,  as  Buck  dodged  for  the  door:  "Just  for 
that,  I'm  going  to  break  this  to  you.  You  know 
that  I  intended  to  handle  the  Middle  Western 
territory  for  one  trip,  or  until  we  could  get  a 
man  to  take  Fat  Ed  Meyers'  place." 

S^J&l?"  said  Buck  apprehensively. 

"I  leave  in  three  days.  Goodness  knows  how 
long  I'll  be  gone !  A  business  deal  down  there 
is  a  ceremony.  And — you  won't  need  any  white- 
flannel  clothes  in  Rock  Island,  Illinois." 

Buck,  aghast,  faced  her  from  the  doorway. 

uYou  mean,  I " 

"Just  that,"  smiled  Emma  McChesney  pleas 
antly.  And  pressed  the  button  that  summoned 
the  stenographer. 

In  the  next  forty-eight  hours,  Mrs.  McChes 
ney  performed  a  series  of  mental  and  physical 
calisthenics  that  would  have  landed  an  ordinary 
woman  in  a  sanatorium.  She  cleaned  up  with 
the  thoroughness  and  dispatch  of  a  housewife 
who,  before  going  to  the  seashore,  forgets  not 
instructions  to  the  iceman,  the  milkman,  the  jan 
itor,  and  the  maid.  She  surveyed  her  territory, 
behind  and  before,  as  a  general  studies  troops 
and  countryside  before  going  into  battle;  she 
foresaw  factory  emergencies,  dictated  office 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

policies,  made  sure  of  staff  organization  like  the 
business  woman  she  was.  Out  in  the  stock 
room,  under  her  supervision,  there  was  scien 
tifically  packed  into  sample-trunks  and  cases  a 
line  of  Featherloom  skirts  and  knickers  calcu 
lated  to  dazzle  Brazil  and  entrance  Argentina. 
And  into  her  own  personal  trunk  there  went  a 
wardrobe,  each  article  of  which  was  a  garment 
with  a  purpose.  Emma  McChesney  knew  the 
value  of  a  smartly  tailored  suit  in  a  business 
argument. 

T.  A.  Buck  canceled  his  order  at  the  tailor's, 
made  up  his  own  line  for  the  Middle  West,  and 
prepared  to  storm  that  prosperous  and  impor 
tant  territory  for  the  first  time  in  his  business 
career. 

The  South  American  boat  sailed  Saturday 
afternoon.  Saturday  morning  found  the  two 
partners  deep  in  one  of  those  condensed,  last- 
minute  discussions.  Mrs.  McChesney  opened 
a  desk  drawer,  took  out  a  leather-covered 
pocket  notebook,  and  handed  it  to  Buck.  A  tiny 
smile  quivered  about  her  lips.  Buck  took  it, 
mystified. 

"Your  last  diary?" 

"Something  much  more  important.     I  call  it 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

The  Salesman's  Who's  Who.'     Read  it  as  you 
ought  your  Bible." 

"But  what?"  Buck  turned  the  pages  won- 
deringly.  He  glanced  at  a  paragraph,  frowned, 
read  it  aloud,  slowly. 

"Des  Moines,  Iowa,  Klein  &  Company.  Miss 
Ella  Sweeney,  skirt  buyer.  Old  girl.  Skittish. 
Wants  to  be  entertained.  Take  her  to  dinner 
and  the  theater." 

He  looked  up,  dazed.  "Good  Lord,  what  is 
this?  A  joke?" 

"Wait  until  you  see  Ella ;  you  won't  think  it's 
a  joke.  She'll  buy  only  your  smoothest  num 
bers,  ask  sixty  days'  dating,  and  expect  you  to 
entertain  her  as  you  would  your  rich  aunt." 

Buck  returned  to  the  little  book  dazedly.  He 
flipped  another  leaf — another.  Then  he  read 
in  a  stunned  sort  of  voice: 

"Sam  Bloom,  Paris  Emporium,  Duluth.  See 
Sadie.". 

He  closed  the  book.  "Say,  see  here,  Emma, 
do  you  mean  to " 

"Sam  is  the  manager,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney  pleasantly,  "and  he  thinks  he  does  the 

[15] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

buying,  but  the  brains  of  that  business  is  a  little 
girl  named  Sadie  Harris.  She's  a  wonder. 
Five  years  from  now,  if  she  doesn't  marry  Sam, 
she'll  be  one  of  those  ten-thousand-a-year  for 
eign  buyers.  Play  your  samples  up  to  Sammy, 
but  quote  your  prices  down  to  Sadie.  Read  the 
next  one,  T.  A." 

Buck  read  on,  his  tone  lifeless : 

"Miss  Sharp.  Berg  Brothers,  Omaha.  Strictly 
business.  Known  among  the  trade  as  the  human 
cactus.  Canceled  a  ten-thousand-dollar  order 
once  because  the  grateful  salesman  called  her 
'girlie.'  Stick  to  skirts." 

Buck  slapped  the  book  smartly  against  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

uDo  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  made  this 
book  out  for  me?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I 
have  to  cram  on  this  like  a  kid  studying  for 
exams?  That  I'll  have  to  cater  to  the  person 
ality  of  the  person  I'm  selling  to?  Why — it's 

Emma  McChesney  nodded  calmly. 

"I  don't  know  how  this  trip  of  yours  is  going 
to  affect  the  firm's  business,  T.  A.  But  it's  go 
ing  to  be  a  liberal  education  for  you.  You'll 
[16] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

find  that  you'll  need  that  little  book  a  good 
many  times  before  you're  through.  And  while 
you're  following  its  advice,  do  this :  forget  that 
your  name  is  Buck,  except  for  business  pur 
poses  ;  forget  that  your  family  has  always  lived 
in  a  brownstone  mausoleum  in  Seventy-second 
street;  forget  that  you  like  your  chops  done  just 
so,  and  your  wine  at  such-and-such  a  tempera 
ture;  get  close  to  your  trade.  They're  an  aw 
fully  human  lot,  those  Middle  Western  buyers. 
Don't  chuck  them  under  the  chin,  but  smile  on 
'em.  And  you've  got  a  lovely  smile,  T.  A." 

Buck  looked  up  from  the  little  leather  book. 
And,  as  he  gazed  at  Emma  McChesney,  the 
smile  appeared  and  justified  its  praise. 

"I'll  have  this  to  comfort  me,  anyway, 
Emma.  I'll  know  that  while  I'm  smirking  on 
the  sprightly  Miss  Sweeney,  your  face  will  be 
undergoing  various  agonizing  twists  in  the  ef 
fort  to  make  American  prices  understood  by  an 
Argentine  who  can't  speak  anything  but  Span 
ish." 

"Maybe  I  am  short  on  Spanish,  but  I'm  long 
on  Featherlooms.  I  may  not  know  a  senora 
from  a  chili  con  carne,  but  I  know  Featherlooms 
from  the  waistband  to  the  hem."  She  leaned 

[17] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

forward,  dimpling  like  fourteen  instead  of 
forty.  uAnd  you've  noticed — haven't  you,  T. 
A.? — that  I've  got  an  expressive  countenance." 

Buck  leaned  forward,  too.  His  smile  was 
almost  gone. 

"I've  noticed  a  lot  of  things,  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney.  And  if  you  persist  in  deviling  me  for 
one  more  minute,  I'm  going  to  mention  a  few." 

Emma  McChesney  surveyed  her  cleared 
desk,  locked  the  top  drawer  with  a  snap,  and 
stood  up. 

"If  you  do  I'll  miss  my  boat.  Just  time  to 
make  Brooklyn.  Suppose  you  write  'em." 

That  Ed  Meyers  might  know  nothing  of  her 
sudden  plans,  she  had  kept  the  trip  secret.  Be 
sides  Buck  and  the  office  staff,  her  son  Jock  was 
the  only  one  who  knew.  But  she  found  her 
cabin  stocked  like  a  prima  donna's  on  a  farewell 
tour.  There  were  boxes  of  flowers,  a  package 
of  books,  baskets  of  fruit,  piles  of  magazines, 
even  a  neat  little  sheaf  of  telegrams,  one  from 
the  faithful  bookkeeper,  one  from  the  work 
room  foreman,  two  from  salesmen  long  in  the 
firm's  employ,  two  from  Jock  in  Chicago.  She 
read  them,  her  face  glowing.  He  and  Buck  had 
vied  with  each  other  in  supplying  her  with  lux- 
[18] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

uries  that  would  make  pleasanter  the  twenty- 
three  days  of  her  voyage. 

She  looked  about  the  snug  cabin,  her  eyes 
suddenly  misty.  Buck  poked  his  head  in  at 
the  door. 

"Come  on  up  on  deck,  Emma;  I've  only  a 
few  minutes  left." 

She  snatched  a  pink  rose  from  the  box,  and 
together  they  went  on  deck. 

"Just  ten  minutes,"  said  Buck.  He  was  look 
ing  down  at  her.  "Remember,  Emma,  nothing 
that  concerns  the  firm's  business,  however  big, 
is  half  as  important  as  the  things  that  concern 
you  personally,  however  small.  I  realize  what 
this  trip  will  mean  to  us,  if  it  pans,  and  if  you 
can  beat  Meyers  to  it.  But  if  anything  should 
happen  to  you,  why " 

"Nothing's  going  to  happen,  T.  A.,  except 
that  I'll  probably  come  home  with  my  com 
plexion  ruined.  I'll  feel  a  great  deal  more 
at  home  talking  pidgin-English  to  Senor  Al 
varez  in  Buenos  Aires  than  you  will  talking 
Featherlooms  to  Miss  Skirt-Buyer  in  Cedar 
Rapids,  Iowa.  But  remember  this,  T.  A. : 
When  you  get  to  know — really  to  know — the 
Sadie  Harrises  and  the  Sammy  Blochs  and  the 

[19] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Ella  Sweeneys  of  this  world,  you've  learned  just 
about  all  there  is  to  know  about  human  beings. 
Quick — the  gangplank!  Goodby,  T.  A." 

The  dock  reached,  he  gazed  up  at  her  as  she 
leaned  far  over  the  railing.  He  made  a  mega 
phone  of  his  hands. 

"I  feel  like  an  old  maid  who's  staying  home 
with  her  knitting,"  he  called. 

The  boat  began  to  move.  Emma  McChes- 
ney  passed  a  quick  hand  over  her  eyes. 

"Don't  drop  any  stitches,  T.  A."  With  un 
erring  aim  she  flung  the  big  pink  rose  straight 
at  him. 

She  went  about  arranging  her  affairs  on  the 
boat  like  the  business  woman  that  she  was. 
First  she  made  her  cabin  shipshape.  She  placed 
nearest  at  hand  the  books  on  South  America, 
and  the  Spanish-American  pocket  interpreter. 
She  located  her  deck  chair,  and  her  seat  in  the 
dining-room.  Then,  quietly,  unobtrusively,  and 
guided  by  those  years  spent  in  meeting  men  and 
women  face  to  face  in  business,  she  took  thor 
ough,  conscientious  mental  stock  of  those  others 
who  were  to  be  her  fellow  travelers  for  twenty- 
three  days. 

For  the  most  part,  the  first-class  passengers 

[20] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

were  men.  There  were  American  business  men 
— salesmen,  some  of  them,  promoters  others, 
or  representatives  of  big  syndicates — shrewd, 
alert,  well  dressed,  smooth  shaven.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  knew  that  she  would  gain  valuable 
information  from  many  of  them  before  the  trip 
was  over.  She  sighed  a  little  regretfully  as  she 
thought  of  those  smoking-room  talks — those 
intimate,  tobacco-mellowed  business  talks  from 
which  she  would  be  barred  by  her  sex. 

There  were  two  engineers,  one  British,  one 
American,  both  very  intelligent-looking,  both 
inclined  to  taciturnity,  as  is  often  the  case  in 
men  of  their  profession.  They  walked  a  good 
deal,  and  smoked  nut-brown,  evil-smelling  pipes, 
and  stared  unblinkingly  across  the  water. 

There  were  Argentines — whole  families  of 
them — Brazilians,  too.  The  fat,  bejeweled 
Brazilian  men  eyed  Emma  McChesney  with 
open  approval,  even  talked  to  her,  leering  ob 
jectionably.  Emma  McChesney  refused  to  be 
annoyed.  Her  ten  years  on  the  road  served 
her  in  good  stead  now. 

But  most  absorbing  of  all  to  Emma  McChes 
ney,  watching  quietly  over  her  book  or  maga 
zine,  was  a  tall,  erect,  white-bearded  Argen- 

[21] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

tine  who,  with  his  family,  occupied  chairs  near 
hers.  His  name  had  struck  her  with  the  sound 
of  familiarity  when  she  read  it  on  the  passenger 
list.  She  had  asked  the  deck-steward  to  point 
out  the  name's  owner.  "Pages,"  she  repeated 
to  herself,  worriedly,  "Pages?  P "  Sud 
denly  she  knew.  Pages  y  Hernandez,  the 
owner  of  the  great  Buenos  Aires  shop — a  shop 
finer  than  those  of  Paris.  And  this  was  Pages ! 
All  the  Featherloom  instinct  in  Emma  McChes- 
ney  came  to  the  surface  and  stayed  there,  seeth 
ing. 

That  was  the  morning  of  the  second  day  out. 
By  afternoon,  she  had  bribed  and  maneuvered 
so  that  her  deck  chair  was  next  that  of  the 
Pages-family  flock  of  chairs.  Senor  Pages  re 
minded  her  of  one  of  those  dashing,  white- 
haired,  distinguished-looking  men  whose  like 
ness  graces  the  cover  of  a  box  of  your  favorite 
cigars.  General  Something-or-other-ending-in-z 
he  should  have  been,  with  a  revolutionary  back 
ground.  He  dressed  somberly  in  black,  like 
most  of  the  other  Argentine  men  on  board. 
There  was  Senora  Pages,  very  fat,  very  indo 
lent,  very  blank,  much  given  to  pink  satin  and 
diamonds  at  dinner.  Senorita  Pages,  over-pow- 

[22] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

dered,  overfrizzed,  marvelously  gowned,  with 
overplumpness  just  a  few  years  away,  sat 
quietly  by  Sefiora  Pages'  side,  but  her  darting, 
flashing,  restless  eyes  were  never  still.  The 
son  (Emma  heard  them  call  him  Pepe)  was 
barely  eighteen,  she  thought,  but  quite  a  man 
of  the  world,  with  his  cigarettes,  his  drinks,  his 
bold  eyes.  She  looked  at  his  sallow,  pimpled 
skin,  his  lean,  brown  hands,  his  lack-luster  eyes, 
and  she  thought  of  Jock  and  was  happy. 

Mrs.  McChesney  knew  that  she  might  visit 
the  magnificent  Buenos  Aires  shop  of  Pages  y 
Hernandez  day  after  day  for  months  without 
ever  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  either  Pages  or 
Hernandez.  And  here  was  Senor  Pages,  so 
near  that  she  could  reach  out  and  touch  him 
from  her  deck  chair.  Here  was  opportunity! 
A  caller  who  had  never  been  obliged  to  knock 
twice  at  Emma  McChesney's  door. 

Her  methods  were  so  simple  that  she  herself 
smiled  at  them.  She  donned  her  choicest  suit 
of  white  serge  that  she  had  been  saving  for 
shore  wear.  Its  skirt  had  been  cut  by  the  very 
newest  trick.  Its  coat  was  the  kind  to  make  you 
go  home  and  get  out  your  own  white  serge  and 
gaze  at  it  with  loathing.  Senorita  Pages'  eyes 

[23] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

leaped  to  that  suit  as  iron  leaps  to  the  magnet. 
Emma  McChesney,  passing  her  deck  chair,  de 
tached  the  eyes  with  a  neat  smile.  Why  hadn't 
she  spent  six  months  neglecting  Skirts  for  Span 
ish?  she  asked  herself,  groaning.  As  she  ap 
proached  her  own  deck  chair  again  she  risked  a 
bright,  "Good  morning."  Her  heart  bounded, 
stood  still,  bounded  again,  as  from  the  lips  of 
the  assembled  Pages  there  issued  a  combined, 
courteous,  perfectly  good  American,  "Good 
morning!" 

"You  speak  English !"  Emma  McChesney's 
tone  expressed  flattery  and  surprise. 

Pages  pere  made  answer. 

"Ah,  yes,  it  is  necessary.  There  are  many 
English  in  Argentina." 

A  sigh — a  fluttering,  tremulous  sigh  of  per 
fect  peace  and  happiness — welled  up  from 
Emma  McChesney's  heart  and  escaped  through 
her  smiling  lips. 

By  noon,  Senorita  Pages  had  tried  on  the 
fascinating  coat  and  secured  the  address  of  its 
builder.  By  afternoon,  Emma  McChesney  was 
showing  the  newest  embroidery  stitch  to  the 
slow  but  docile  Sefiora  Pages.  Next  morning 
she  was  playing  shuffleboard  with  the  elegant, 

[24] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

indolent  Pepe,  and  talking  North  American 
football  and  baseball  to  him.  She  had  not  been 
Jock  McChesney's  mother  all  those  years  for 
nothing.  She  could  discuss  sports  with  the  best 
of  them.  Young  Pages  was  avidly  interested. 
Outdoor  sports  had  become  the  recent  fashion 
among  the  rich  young  Argentines. 

The  problem  of  papa  Pages  was  not  so  easy. 
Emma  McChesney  approached  her  subject 
warily,  skirting  the  bypaths  of  politics,  war,  cli 
mate,  customs — to  business.  Business ! 

uBut  a  lady  as  charming  as  you  can  under 
stand  nothing 'of  business,"  said  Senor  Pages. 
"Business  is  for  your  militant  sisters." 

"But  we  American  women  do  understand 
business.  Many — many  charming  American 
women  are  in  business." 

Senor  Pages  turned  his  fine  eyes  upon  her. 
She  had  talked  most  interestingly,  this  pretty 
American  woman. 

"Perhaps — but  pardon  me  if  I  think  not.  A 
woman  cannot  be  really  charming  and  also  ca 
pable  in  business." 

Emma  McChesney  dimpled  becomingly. 

"But  I  know  a  woman  who  is  as — well,  as 
charming  as  you  say  I  am.  Still,  she  is  known 

[25] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

as  a  capable,  successful  business  woman.  She'll 
be  in  Buenos  Aires  when  I  am." 

Senor  Pages  shook  an  unbelieving  head. 
Emma  McChesney  leaned  forward. 

"Will  you  let  me  bring  her  in  to  meet  you, 
just  to  prove  my  point?" 

"She  must  be  as  charming  as  you  are."  His 
Argentine  betting  proclivities  rose.  "Here;  we 
shall  make  a  wager!"  He  took  a  card  from  his 
pocket,  scribbled  on  it,  handed  it  to  Emma  Mc 
Chesney.  "You  will  please  present  that  to  my 
secretary,  who  will  conduct  you  immediately  to 
my  office.  We  will  pretend  it  is  a  friendly  call. 
Your  friend  need  not  know.  If  I  lose " 

"If  you  lose,  you  must  promise  to  let  her 
show  you  her  sample  line." 

"But,  dear  madam,  I  do  no  buying." 

"Then  you  must  introduce  her  favorably  to 
the  department  buyer  of  her  sort  of  goods." 

"But  if  I  win?"  persisted  Senor  Pages. 

"If  she  isn't  as  charming  as — as  you  say  I 
am,  you  may  make  your  own  terms." 

Serior  Pages'  fine  eyes  opened  wide. 

It  was  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  their  trip 
that  they  came  into  quaint  Bahia.  The  stay 
there  was  short.  Brazilian  business  methods 

[26] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

are  long.  Emma  McChesney  took  no  chances 
with  sample-trunks  or  cases.  She  packed  her 
three  leading  samples  into  her  own  personal 
suitcase,  eluded  the  other  tourists,  secured  an 
interpreter,  and  prepared  to  brave  Bahia.  She 
returned  just  in  time  to  catch  the  boat,  flushed, 
tired,  and  orderless.  Bahia  would  have  none 
of  her. 

In  three  days  they  would  reach  Rio  de  Ja 
neiro,  the  magnificent.  They  would  have  three 
days  there.  She  told  herself  that  Bahia  didn't 
count,  anyway — sleepy  little  half-breed  town! 
But  the  arrow  rankled.  It  had  been  the  first  to 
penetrate  the  armor  of  her  business  success. 
But  she  had  learned  things  from  that  experi 
ence  at  Bahia.  She  had  learned  that  the  South 
American  dislikes  the  North  American  because 
his  Northern  cousi'n  patronizes  him.  She 
learned  that  the  North  American  business  firm 
is  thought  by  the  Southern  business  man  to  be 
tricky  and  dishonest,  and  that,  because  the 
Northerner  has  not  learned  how  to  pack  a  case 
of  goods  scientifically,  as  have  the  English,  Ger 
mans,  and  French,  the  South  American  rages 
to  pay  cubic-feet  rates  on  boxes  that  are  three- 
quarters  empty. 

[27] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

So  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  but  a  knowing 
head  that  she  faced  Rio  de  Janeiro.  They  had 
entered  in  the  evening,  the  sunset  splashing  the 
bay  and  the  hills  in  the  foreground  and  the 
Sugar-loaf  Mountain  with  an  unbelievable  riot 
of  crimson  and  gold  and  orange  and  blue.  Sud 
denly  the  sun  jerked  down,  as  though  pulled 
by  a  string,  and  the  magic  purple  night  came  up 
as  though  pulled  by  another. 

"Well,  anyway,  I've  seen  that,"  breathed 
Emma  McChesney  thankfully. 

Next  morning,  she  packed  her  three  samples, 
as  before,  her  heart  heavy,  her  mind  on  Fat  Ed 
Meyers  coming  up  two  weeks  behind  her. 
Three  days  in  Rio !  And  already  she  had 
bumped  her  impatient,  quick-thinking,  quick- 
acting  North  American  business  head  up 
against  the  stone  wall  of  South  American 
leisureliness  and  prejudice.  She  meant  no  ir 
reverence,  no  impiety  as  she  prayed,  meanwhile 
packing  Nos.  79,  65,  and  48  into  her  personal 
bag: 

UO  Lord,  let  Fat  Ed  Meyers  have  Bahia; 
but  please,  please  help  me  to  land  Rio  and 
Buenos  Aires!" 

Then,  in  smart  tailored  suit  and  hat,  inter- 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

preter  in  tow,  a  prayer  in  her  heart,  and  ex 
citement  blazing  in  cheeks  and  eyes,  she  made 
her  way  to  the  dock,  through  the  customs,  into 
a  cab  that  was  to  take  her  to  her  arena,  the 
broad  Avenida. 

Exactly  two  hours  later,  there  dashed  into 
the  customs-house  a  well-dressed  woman  whose 
hat  was  very  much  over  one  ear.  She 
was  running  as  only  a  woman  runs  when  she's 
made  up  her  mind  to  get  there.  She  came  hot 
foot,  helter-skelter,  regardless  of  modishly 
crippling  skirt,  past  officers,  past  customs  of 
ficials,  into  the  section  where  stood  the  one 
small  sample-trunk  that  she  had  ordered  down 
in  case  of  emergency.  The  trunk  had  not  gone 
through  the  customs.  It  had  not  even  been 
opened.  But  Emma  McChesney  heeded  not 
trifles  like  that.  Rio  de  Janeiro  had  fallen  for 
Featherlooms.  Those  three  samples,  Nos.  79, 
65,  and  48,  that  boasted  style,  cut,  and  work 
manship  never  before  seen  in  Rio,  had  turned 
the  trick.  They  were  as  a  taste  of  blood  to  a 
hungry  lion.  Rio  wanted  more ! 

Emma  McChesney  was  kneeling  before  her 
trunk,  had  whipped  out  her  key,  unlocked  it, 
and  was  swiftly  selecting  the  numbers  wanted 

[29] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

from  the  trays,  her  breath  coming  quickly,  her 
deft  fingers  choosing  unerringly,  when  an  in 
dignant  voice  said,  in  Portuguese,  "It  is  forbid 
den  I" 

Emma  McChesney  did  not  glance  around. 
Her  head  was  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  trunk. 
But  her  quick  ears  had  caught  the  word,  "Pro- 
hiba!" 

"Speak  English,"  she  said,  and  went  on  un 
packing. 

"Ingles!"  shouted  the  official.  "No!"  Then, 
with  a  superhuman  effort,  as  Emma  McChes 
ney  stood  up,  her  arms  laden  with  Featherloom 
samples  of  rainbow  hues,  "Pare!  Ar-r-r-rest!" 

Mrs.  McChesney  slammed  down  the  trunk 
top,  locked  it,  clutched  her  samples  firmly,  and 
faced  the  enraged  official. 

"Go  'way !  I  haven't  time  to  be  arrested  this 
morning.  This  is  my  busy  day.  Call  around 
this  evening." 

Whereupon  she  fled  to  her  waiting  cab,  leav 
ing  behind  her  a  Brazilian  official  stunned  and 
raging  by  turns. 

When  she  returned,  happy,  triumphant,  or 
der-laden,  he  was  standing  there,  stunned  no 
longer  but  raging  still.  Emma  McChesney  had 

[30] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

forgotten  all  about  him.  The  gold-braided  of 
ficial  advanced,  mustachios  bristling.  A  volley 
of  Portuguese  burst  from  his  long-pent  lips. 
Emma  McChesney  glanced  behind  her.  Her 
interpreter  threw  up  helpless  hands,  replying 
with  a  still  more  terrifying  burst  of  vowels.  Be 
wildered,  a  little  frightened,  Mrs.  McChesney 
stood  helplessly  by.  The  official  laid  a  none 
too  gentle  hand  on  her  shoulder.  A  little  group 
of  lesser  officials  stood,  comic-opera  fashion,  in 
the  background.  And  then  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  New  York  training  came  to  her  aid.  She 
ignored  the  voluble  interpreter.  She  remained 
coolly  unruffled  by  the  fusillade  of  Portuguese. 
Quietly  she  opened  her  hand  bag  and  plunged 
her  fingers  deep,  deep  therein.  Her  blue  eyes 
gazed  confidingly  up  into  the  Brazilian's  snap 
ping  black  ones,  and  as  she  withdrew  her  hand 
from  the  depths  of  her  purse,  there  passed 
from  her  white  fingers  to  his  brown  ones  that 
which  is  the  Esperanto  of  the  nations,  the  uni 
versal  language  understood  from  Broadway  to 
Brazil.  The  hand  on  her  shoulder  relaxed  and 
fell  away. 

On   deck  once   more,    she  encountered   the 
suave  Senor  Pages.     He  stood  at  the  rail  sur- 

[31] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

veying  Rio's  shores  with  that  lip-curling  con 
tempt  of  the  Argentine  for  everything  Brazil 
ian.  He  regarded  Emma  McChesney' s  radi 
ant  face. 

"You  are  pleased  with  this — this  Indian 
Rio?" 

Mrs.  McChesney  paused  to  gaze  with  him 
at  the  receding  shores. 

"Like  it!  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  Seen  it. 
From  here  it  looks  like  Coney.  But  it  buys 
like  Seattle.  Like  it!  Well,  I  should  say  I 
do!" 

"Ah,  senora,"  exclaimed  Pages,  distressed, 
"wait!  In  six  days  you  will  behold  Buenos 
Aires.  Your  New  York,  Londres,  Paris — bah ! 
You  shall  drive  with  my  wife  and  daughter 
through  Palermo.  You  shall  see  jewels,  mo 
tors,  toilettes  as  never  before.  And  you  will 
visit  my  establishment?"  He  raised  an  em 
phatic  forefinger.  "But  surely!" 

Emma  McChesney  regarded  him  solemnly. 

"I  promise  to  do  that.     You  may  rely  on 


me." 


Six  days  later  they  swept  up  the  muddy  and 
majestic  Plata,  whose  color  should  have  won  it 
the  name  of  River  of  Gold  instead  of  River  of 

[32] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

Silver.  From  the  boat's  upper  deck,  Emma 
McChesney  beheld  a  sky  line  which  was  so  like 
the  sky  line  of  her  own  New  York  that  it  gave 
her  a  shock.  She  was  due  for  still  another 
shock  when,  an  hour  later,  she  found  herself 
in  a  maelstrom  of  motors,  cabs,  street  cars, 
newsboys,  skyscrapers,  pedestrians,  policemen, 
subway  stations.  Where  was  the  South  Ameri 
can  languor?  Where  the  Argentine  inertia? 
The  rush  and  roar  of  it,  the  bustle  and  the  bang 
of  it  made  the  twenty-three-day  voyage  seem  a 
myth. 

"I'm  going  to  shut  my  eyes,"  she  told  her 
self,  "and  then  open  them  quickly.  If  that  little 
brown  traffic-policeman  turns  out  to  be  a  big, 
red-faced  traffic-policeman,  then  I'm  right,  and 
this  is  Broadway  and  Forty-second." 

Shock  number  three  came  upon  her  entrance 
at  the  Grande  Hotel.  It  had  been  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney's  boast  that  her  ten  years  on  the  road 
had  familiarized  her  with  every  type,  grade, 
style,  shape,  cut,  and  mold  of  hotel  clerk.  She 
knew  him  from  the  Knickerbocker  to  the  Eagle 
House  at  Waterloo,  Iowa.  At  the  moment  she 
entered  the  Grande  Hotel,  she  knew  she  had 
overlooked  one.  Accustomed  though  she  was 

[33] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

to  the  sartorial  splendors  of  the  man  behind  the 
desk,  she  might  easily  have  mistaken  this  one 
for  the  president  of  the  republic.  In  his  glit 
tering  uniform,  he  looked  a  pass  between  the 
supreme  chancellor  of  the  K.P.'s  in  full  regalia 
and  a  prince  of  India  during  the  Durbar.  He 
was  regal.  He  was  overwhelming.  He  would 
have  made  the  most  splendid  specimen  of 
North  American  hotel  clerk  look  like  a  scullery 
boy.  Mrs.  McChesney  spent  two  whole  days 
in  Buenos  Aires  before  she  discovered  that  she 
could  paralyze  this  personage  with  a  peso.  A 
peso  is  forty-three  cents. 

Her  experience  at  Bahia  and  at  Rio  de  Ja 
neiro  had  taught  her  things.  So  for  two  days, 
haunted,  as  she  was,  by  visions  of  Fat  Ed 
Meyers  coming  up  close  behind  her,  she  pos 
sessed  her  soul  in  patience  and  waited.  On 
the  great  firm  of  Pages  y  Hernandez  rested 
the  success  of  this  expedition.  When  she 
thought  of  her  little  trick  on  Sefior  Pages,  her 
blithe  spirits  sank.  Suppose,  after  all,  that  this 
powerful  South  American  should  resent  her 
little  Yankee  joke ! 

Her  trunks  went  through  the  customs.  She 
secured  an  interpreter.  She  arranged  her  s^m- 

[34] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

pies  with  loving  care.  Style,  cut,  workmanship 
— she  ran  over  their  strong  points  in  her  mind. 
She  looked  at  them  as  a  mother's  eyes  rest 
fondly  on  the  shining  faces,  the  well-brushed 
hair,  the  clean  pinafores  of  her  brood.  And 
her  heart  swelled  with  pride.  They  lay  on 
their  tables,  the  artful  knickerbockers,  the 
gleaming  petticoats,  the  pink  and  blue  pajamas, 
the  bifurcated  skirts.  Emma  McChesney  ran 
one  hand  lightly  over  the  navy  blue  satin  folds 
of  a  sample. 

"Pages  or  no  Pages,  you're  a  credit  to  your 
mother,"  she  said,  whimsically. 

Up  in  her  room  once  more,  she  selected  her 
smartest  tailor  costume,  her  most  modish  hat, 
the  freshest  of  gloves  and  blouses.  She  chose 
the  hours  between  four  and  six,  when  wheel 
traffic  was  suspended  in  the  Calle  Florida  and 
throughout  the  shopping-district,  the  narrow 
streets  of  which  are  congested  to  the  point  of 
suffocation  at  other  times 

As  she  swung  down  the  street  they  turned  to 
gaze  after  her — these  Argentines.  The  fat 
senoras  turned,  and  the  smartly  costumed,  sal 
low  senoritas,  and  the  men — all  of  them.  They 
spoke  to  her,  these  last,  but  she  had  expected 

[35] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

that,  and  marched  on  with  her  free,  swinging 
stride,  her  chin  high,  her  color  very  bright. 
Into  the  great  shop  of  Pages  y  Hernandez  at 
last,  up  to  the  private  offices,  her  breath  coming 
a  little  quickly,  into  the  presence  of  the  shiny 
secretary — shiny  teeth,  shiny  hair,  shiny  skin, 
shiny  nails.  He  gazed  upon  Emma  McChes- 
ney,  the  shine  gleaming  brighter.  He  took  in 
his  slim,  brown  fingers  the  card  on  which  Senor 
Pages  had  scribbled  that  day  on  board  ship. 
The  shine  became  dazzling.  He  bowed  low 
and  backed  his  way  into  the  office  of  Senor 
Pages. 

A  successful  man  is  most  impressive  when  in 
those  surroundings  which  have  been  built  up  by 
his  success.  On  shipboard,  Senor  Pages  had 
been  a  genial,  charming,  distinguished  fellow 
passenger.  In  his  luxurious  business  office  he 
still  was  genial,  charming,  but  his  environment 
seemed  to  lend  him  a  certain  austerity. 

"Seiiora  McChesney!" 

("How  awful  that  sounds !"  Emma  McChes 
ney  told  herself.) 

uWe  spoke  of  you  but  last  night.  And  now 
you  come  to  win  the  wager,  yes?"  He  smiled, 
but  shook  his  head. 

[36] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

"Yes,"  replied  Emma  McChesney.  And 
tried  to  smile,  too. 

Senor  Pages  waved  a  hand  toward  the  outer 
office. 

"She  is  with  you,  this  business  friend  who  is 
also  so  charming?'7 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  "she's 
— she's  with  me."  Then,  as  he  made  a  motion 
toward  the  push-button,  which  would  summon 
the  secretary:  "No,  don't  do  that!  Wait  a 
minute !"  From  her  bag  she  drew  her  business 
card,  presented  it.  "Read  that  first." 

Senor  Pages  read  it.  He  looked  up.  Then 
he  read  it  again.  He  gazed  again  at  Emma 
McChesney.  Emma  McChesney  looked 
straight  at  him  and  tried  in  vain  to  remember 
ever  having  heard  of  the  South  American's 
sense  of  humor.  A  moment  passed.  Her 
heart  sank.  Then  Senor  Pages  threw  back  his 
fine  head  and  laughed — laughed  as  the  Latin 
laughs,  emphasizing  his  mirth  with  many  ejacu 
lations  and  gestures. 

"Ah,  you  Northerners!     You  are  too  quick 

for  us.    Come;  I  myself  must  see  this  garment 

which  you  honor  by  selling."    His  glance  rested 

approvingly    on    Emma     McChesney's    trim, 

[37] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

smart  figure.  "That  which  you  sell,  it  must 
be  quite  right." 

"I  not  only  sell  it,"  said  Emma  McChesney; 
"I  wear  it." 

"That — how  is  it  you  Northerners  say? — ah, 
yes — that  settles  it!" 

Six  weeks  later,  in  his  hotel  room  in  Colum 
bus,  Ohio,  T.  A.  Buck  sat  reading  a  letter  for 
warded  from  New  York  and  postmarked  Ar 
gentina.  As  he  read  he  chuckled,  grew  serious, 
chuckled  again  and  allowed  his  cigar  to  grow 
cold. 

For  the  seventh  time : 

DEAR  T.  A. : 

They've  fallen  for  Featherlooms  the  way  an  Eskimo 
takes  to  gum-drops.  My  letter  of  credit  is  all  shot  to 
pieces,  but  it  was  worth  it.  They  make  you  pay  a 
separate  license  fee  in  each  province,  and  South  Amer 
ica  is  just  one  darn  province  after  another.  If  they'd 
lump  a  peddler's  license  for  $5,000  and  tell  you  to  go 
ahead,  it  would  be  cheaper. 

I  landed  Pages  y  Hernandez  by  a  trick.  The  best 
of  it  is  the  man  I  played  it  on  saw  the  point  and 
laughed  with  me.  We  North  Americans  brag  too 
much  about  our  sense  of  humor. 

I  thought  ten  years  on  the  road  had  hardened  me 

[38] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

to  the  most  fiendish  efforts  of  a  hotel  chef.  But  the 
food  at  the  Grande  here  makes  a  quarter-inch  round 
steak  with  German  fried  look  like  Sherry's  latest  tri 
umph.  You  know  I'm  not  fussy.  I'm  the  kind  of 
woman  who,  given  her  choice  of  ice  cream  or  cheese 
for  dessert,  will  take  cheese.  Here,  given  my  choice, 
I  play  safe  and  take  neither.  I've  reached  the  point 
where  I  make  a  meal  of  radishes.  They  kill  their  beef 
in  the  morning  and  serve  it  for  lunch.  It  looks  and 
tastes  like  an  Ethiop's  ear.  But  I  don't  care,  because 
I'm  getting  gorgeously  thin. 

If  the  radishes  hold  out  I'll  invade  Central  America 
and  Panama.  I've  one  eye  on  Valparaiso  already.  I 
know  it  sounds  wild,  but  it  means  a  future  and  a  for 
tune  for  Featherlooms.  I  find  I  don't  even  have  to  talk 
skirts.  They're  self-sellers.  But  I  have  to  talk  hon 
esty  and  packing. 

How  did  you  hit  it  off  with  Ella  Sweeney?  Haven't 
seen  a  sign  of  Fat  Ed  Meyers.  I'm  getting  nervous. 
Do  you  think  he  may  have  exploded  at  the  equator? 

EMMA. 

But  kind  fortune  saw  fit  to  add  a  last  sweet 
drop  to  Emma  McChesney's  already  brimming 
cup.  As  she  reached  the  docks  on  the  day  of 
her  departure,  clad  in  cool,  crisp  white  from 
hat  to  shoes,  her  quick  eye  spied  a  red-faced, 

[39] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

rotund,  familiar  figure  disembarking  from  the 
New  York  boat,  just  arrived.  The  fates,  grin 
ning,  had  planned  this  moment  like  a  stage -man 
ager.  Fat  Ed  Meyers  came  heavily  down  the 
gangplank.  His  hat  was  off.  He  was  mopping 
the  top  of  his  head  with  a  large,  damp  hand 
kerchief.  His  gaze  swept  over  the  busy  land 
ing-docks,  darted  hither  and  thither,  alighted 
on  Emma  McChesney  with  a  shock,  and  rested 
there.  A  distinct  little  shock  went  through  that 
lady,  too.  But  she  waited  at  the  foot  of  her 
boat's  gangway  until  the  unbelievably  nimble 
Meyers  reached  her. 

He  was  a  fiery  spectacle.  His  cheeks  were 
distended,  his  eyes  protuberant.  He  wasted  no 
words.  They  understood  each  other,  those 
two. 

"Coming  or  going?" 

"Going,"  replied  Emma  McChesney. 

"Clean  up  this — this  Bonez  Areez,  too?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Did,  huh?" 

Meyers  stood  a  moment  panting,  his  little 
eyes  glaring  into  her  calm  ones. 

"Well,  I  beat  you  in  Bahia,  anyway,"  he 
boasted. 

[40] 


BROADWAY  TO  BUENOS  AIRES 

Emma  McChesney  snapped  her  fingers 
blithely. 

uBah,  for  Bahia!"  She  took  a  step  or  two 
up  the  gangplank,  and  turned.  "Good-by,  Ed. 
And  good  luck.  I  can  recommend  the  radishes, 
but  pass  up  the  beef.  Dangerous." 

Fat  Ed  Meyers,  still  staring,  began  to  stutter 
unintelligibly,  his  lips  moving  while  no  words 
came.  Emma  McChesney  held  up  a  warning 
hand. 

"Don't  do  that,  Ed!  Not  in  this  climate! 
A  man  of  your  build,  too !  I'm  surprised.  Con 
sider  the  feelings  of  your  firm!" 

Fat  Ed  Meyers  glared  up  at  the  white-clad, 
smiling,  gracious  figure.  His  hands  unclenched. 
The  words  came. 

uOh,  if  only  you  were  a  man  for  just  ten 
minutes!"  he  moaned. 


[41] 


II 

THANKS   TO   MISS   MORRISSEY 

IT  was  Fat  Ed  Meyers,  of  the  Sans-Silk  Skirt 
Company,  who  first  said  that  Mrs.  Emma 
McChesney  was  the  Maude  Adams  of  the  busi 
ness  world.  It  was  on  the  occasion  of  his  being 
called  to  the  carpet  for  his  failure  to  make 
Sans-silks  as  popular  as  Emma  McChesney's 
famed  Featherlooms.  He  spoke  in  self-de 
fense,  heatedly. 

"It  isn't  Featherlooms.  It's  McChesney. 
Her  line  is  no  better  than  ours.  It's  her  person 
ality,  not  her  petticoats.  She's  got  a  following 
that  swears  by  her.  If  Maude  Adams  was  to 
open  on  Broadway  in  'East  Lynne,'  they'd  flock 
to  see  her,  wouldn't  they?  Well,  Emma  Mc 
Chesney  could  sell  hoop-skirts,  I'm  telling  you. 
She  could  sell  bustles.  She  could  sell  red- 
woolen  mittens  on  Fifth  Avenue!" 

The  title  stuck. 

It  was  late  in  September  when  Mrs.  McChes 
ney,  sunburned,  decidedly  under  weight,  but 

[42] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

gloriously  triumphant,  returned  from  a  four 
months'  tour  of  South  America.  Against  the 
earnest  protests  of  her  business  partner,  T.  A. 
Buck,  president  of  the  Buck  Featherloom  Petti 
coat  Company,  she  had  invaded  the  southern 
continent  and  left  it  abloom  with  Featherlooms 
from  the  Plata  to  the  Canal. 

Success  was  no  stranger  to  Mrs.  McChesney. 
This  last  business  victory  had  not  turned  her 
head.  But  it  had  come  perilously  near  to  tilt 
ing  that  extraordinarily  well-balanced  part.  A 
certain  light  in  her  eyes,  a  certain  set  of  her 
chin,  an  added  briskness  of  bearing,  a  cocky 
slant  of  the  eyebrow  revealed  the  fact  that, 
though  Mrs.  McChesney's  feet  were  still  on 
the  ground,  she  might  be  said  to  be  standing  on 
tiptoe. 

When  she  had  sailed  from  Brooklyn  pier 
that  June  afternoon,  four  months  before,  she 
had  cast  her  ordinary  load  of  business  respon 
sibilities  on  the  unaccustomed  shoulders  of  T. 
A.  Buck.  That  elegant  person,  although  presi 
dent  of  the  company  which  his  father  had 
founded,  had  never  been  its  real  head.  When 
trouble  threatened  in  the  workroom,  it  was  to 
Mrs.  McChesney  that  the  forewoman  came. 

[43] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

When  an  irascible  customer  in  Green  Bay,  Wis 
consin,  waxed  impatient  over  the  delayed  ship 
ment  of  a  Featherloom  order,  it  was  to  Emma 
McChesney  that  his  typewritten  protest  was  ad 
dressed.  When  the  office  machinery  needed 
mental  oiling,  when  a  new  hand  demanded  to 
be  put  on  silk-work  instead  of  mercerized, 
when  a  consignment  of  skirt-material  turned 
out  to  be  more  than  usually  metallic,  it  was  in 
Mrs.  Emma  McChesney's  little  private  office 
that  the  tangle  was  unsnarled. 

She  walked  into  that  little  office,  now,  at 
nine  o'clock  of  a  brilliant  September  morning. 
ft  was  a  reassuring  room,  bright,  orderly,  work 
manlike,  reflecting  the  personality  of  its  owner. 
She  stood  in  the  center  of  it  now  and  looked 
about  her,  eyes  glowing,  lips  parted.  She 
raised  her  hands  high  above  her  head,  then 
brought  them  down  to  her  sides  again  with  an 
unconsciously  dramatic  gesture  that  expressed 
triumph,  peace,  content,  relief,  accomplishment, 
and  a  great  and  deep  satisfaction.  T.  A.  Buck, 
in  the  doorway,  saw  the  gesture — and  under 
stood. 

"Not  so  bad  to  get  back  to  it,  is  it?" 
"Bad!    It's  like  a  drink  of  cool  spring  water 

[44] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

after  too  much  champagne.  In  those  miserable 
South  American  hotels,  how  I  used  to  long  for 
the  orderliness  and  quiet  of  this!" 

She  took  off  hat  and  coat.  In  a  vase  on  the 
desk,  a  cluster  of  yellow  chrysanthemums  shook 
their  shaggy  heads  in  welcome.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney's  quick  eye  jumped  to  them,  then  to 
Buck,  who  had  come  in  and  was  surveying  the 
scene  appreciatively. 

"You — of  course."  She  indicated  the  flowers 
with  a  nod  and  a  radiant  smile. 

"Sorry — no.  The  office  staff  did  that. 
There's  a  card  of  welcome,  I  believe." 

"Oh,"  said  Emma  McChesney.  The  smile 
was  still  there,  but  the  radiance  was  gone. 

She  seated  herself  at  her  desk.  Buck  took 
the  chair  near  by.  She  unlocked  a  drawer, 
opened  it,  rummaged,  closed  it  again,  unlocked 
another.  She  patted  the  flat  top  of  her  desk 
with  loving  fingers. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shamed  laugh;  "I'm  so  glad  to  be  back.  I'll 
probably  hug  the  forewoman  and  bite  a  piece 
out  of  the  first  Featherloom  I  lay  hands  on. 
I  had  to  use  all  my  self-control  to  keep  from 
kissing  Jake,  the  elevator-man,  coming  up." 

[45] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye,  Emma  Mo 
Chesney  had  been  glancing  at  her  handsome 
business  partner.  She  had  found  herself  doing 
the  same  thing  from  the  time  he  had  met  her 
at  the  dock  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  be 
fore.  Those  four  months  had  wrought  some 
subtle  change.  But  what?  Where?  She 
frowned  a  moment  in  thought. 

Then: 

ulsthat  a  new  suit,  T.  A.?" 

"This?  Lord,  no!  Last  summer's.  Put  it 
on  because  of  this  July  hangover  in  September. 
Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know" — vaguely — "I  just — 
wondered." 

There  was  nothing  vague  about  T.  A.  Buck, 
however.  His  old  air  of  leisureliness  was  gone. 
His  very  attitude  as  he  sat  there,  erect,  brisk, 
confident,  was  in  direct  contrast  to  his  old, 
graceful  indolence. 

"I'd  like  to  go  over  the  home  grounds  with 
you  this  morning,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  in  our 
talk  last  night,  we  didn't  cover  the  South  Amer 
ican  situation  thoroughly.  But  your  letters  and 
the  orders  told  the  story.  You  carried  the  thing 
through  to  success.  It's  marvelous!  But  we 

[46] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

stay-at-homes  haven't  been  marking  time  dur 
ing  your  absence." 

The  puzzled  frown  still  sat  on  Emma  Mo 
Chesney's  brow.  As  though  thinking  aloud, 
she  said, 

"Have  you  grown  thinner,  or  fatter  or — 
something?" 

"Not  an  ounce.  Weighed  at  the  club  yester 
day." 

He  leaned  forward  a  little,  his  face  suddenly 
very  sober. 

"Emma,  I  want  to  tell  you  now  that — that 
mother — she — I  lost  her  just  a  few  weeks  after 
you  sailed." 

Emma  McChesney  gave  a  little  cry.  She 
came  quickly  over  to  him,  and  one  hand  went 
to  his  shoulder  as  she  stood  looking  down  at 
him,  her  face  all  sympathy  and  contrition  and 
sorrow. 

"And  you  didn't  write  me !  You  didn't  even 
tell  me,  last  night!" 

"I  didn't  want  to  distress  you.  I  knew  you 
were  having  a  hard-enough  pull  down  there 
without  additional  worries.  It  happened  very 
suddenly  while  I  was  out  on  the  road.  I  got 
the  wire  in  Peoria.  She  died  very  suddenly 

[47] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

and  quite  painlessly.  Her  companion,  Miss 
Tate,  was  with  her.  She  had  never  been  her 
self  since  Dad's  death." 

"And  you " 

"I  could  only  do  what  was  to  be  done.  Then 
I  went  back  on  the  road.  I  closed  up  the  house, 
and  now  I've  leased  it.  Of  course  it's  big 
enough  for  a  regiment.  But  we  stayed  on  be 
cause  mother  was  used  to  it.  I  sold  some  of 
the  furniture,  but  stored  the  things  she  had 
loved.  She  left  some  to  you." 

"Tome!" 

"You  know  she  used  to  enjoy  your  visits  so 
much,  partly  because  of  the  way  in  which  you 
always  talked  of  Dad.  She  left  you  some  jew 
elry  that  she  was  fond  of,  and  that  colossal 
old  mahogany  buffet  that  you  used  to  rave 
over  whenever  you  came  up.  Heaven  knows 
what  you'll  do  with  it!  It's  a  white  elephant. 
If  you  add  another  story  to  it,  you  could  rent 
it  out  as  an  apartment." 

"Indeed  I  shall  take  it,  and  cherish  it,  and 
polish  it  up  myself  every  week — the  beauty!" 

She  came  back  to  her  chair.  They  sat  a  mo 
ment  in  silence.  Then  Emma  McChesney 
spoke  musingly. 

[48] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

"So  that  was  it."  Buck  looked  up.  "I 
sensed  something — different.  I  didn't  know. 
I  couldn't  explain  it." 

Buck  passed  a  quick  hand  over  his  eyes, 
shook  himself,  sat  up,  erect  and  brisk  again, 
and  plunged,  with  a  directness  that  was  as  star 
tling  as  it  was  new  in  him,  into  the  details  of 
Middle  Western  business. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Emma  McChesney. 
"It's  all  very  well  to  know  that  Featherlooms 
are  safe  in  South  America.  But  the  important 
thing  is  to  know  how  they're  going  in  the  corn 
country." 

Buck  stood  up. 

"Suppose  we  transfer  this  talk  to  my  office. 
All  the  papers  are  there,  all  the  correspondence 
— all  the  orders,  everything.  You  can  get  the 
whole  situation  in  half  an  hour.  What's  the 
use  of  talking  when  figures  will  tell  you." 

He  walked  swiftly  over  to  the  door  and 
stood  there  waiting.  Emma  McChesney  rose. 
The  puzzled  look  was  there  again. 

"No,  that  wasn't  it,  after  all,"  she  said. 

"Eh?"  said  Buck.     "Wasn't  what?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Emma  McChesney. 
"I'm  wool-gathering  this  morning.  I'm  afraid 

[49] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

it's  going  to  take  me  a  day  or  two  to  get  back 
into  harness  again." 

"If  you'd  rather  wait,  if  you  think  you'll 
be  more  fit  to-morrow  or  the  day  after, 
we'll  wait.  There's  no  real  hurry.  I  just 
thought " 

But  Mrs.  McChesney  led  the  way  across  the 
hall  that  separated  her  office  from  her  part 
ner's.  Halfway  across,  she  stopped  and  sur 
veyed  the  big,  bright,  busy  main  office,  with 
its  clacking  typewriters  and  rustle  and  crackle 
of  papers  and  its  air  of  concentration. 

"Why,  you've  run  up  a  partition  there  be 
tween  Miss  Casey's  desk  and  the  workroom 
door,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes;  it's  much  better  that  way." 

"Yes,  of  course.  And — why,  where  are  the 
boys'  desks?  Spalding's  and  Hutchinson's,  and 
— they're  all  gone !"  She  turned  in  amazement. 
"Break  it  to  me!  Aren't  we  using  traveling 
men  any  more?" 

Buck  laughed  his  low,  pleasant  laugh. 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  thought  their  desks  belonged 
somewhere  else  than  in  the  main  office.  They're 
now  installed  in  the  little  room  between  the 
shop  and  Healy's  office.  Close  quarters,  but 

[50] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

better  than  having  them  out  here  where  they 
were  inclined  to  neglect  their  reports  in  order 
to  shine  in  the  eyes  of  that  pretty  new  stenog 
rapher.  There  are  one  or  two  other  changes. 
I  hope  you'll  approve  of  them." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall,'1  replied  Emma  McChes- 
ney,  a  little  stiffly. 

In  Buck's  office,  she  settled  back  in  her  chair 
to  watch  him  as  he  arranged  neat  sheaves  of 
papers  for  her  inspection.  Her  eyes  traveled 
from  his  keen,  eager  face  to  the  piles  of  paper 
and  back  again. 

'Tell  me,  did  you  hit  it  off  with  the  Ella 
Sweeneys  and  the  Sadie  Harrises  of  the  great 
Middle  West?  Is  business  as  bad  as  the  howl 
ers  say  it  is?  You  said  something  last  night 
about  a  novelty  bifurcated  skirt.  Was  that  the 
new  designer's  idea  ?  How  have  the  early  buy 
ers  taken  to  it?" 

Buck  crooked  an  elbow  over  his  head  in  self- 
defense. 

"Stop  it!  You  make  me  feel  like  Rheims 
cathedral.  Don't  bombard  until  negotiations 
fail." 

He  handed  her  the  first  sheaf  of  papers. 
But,  before  she  began  to  read:  "I'll  say  this 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

much.  Miss  Sharp,  of  Berg  Brothers,  Omaha 
— the  one  you  warned  against  as  the  human 
cactus — had  me  up  for  dinner.  Well,  I  know 
you  don't,  but  it's  true.  Her  father  and  I  hit 
it  off  just  like  that.  He's  a  character,  that  old 
boy.  Ever  meet  him?  No?  And  Miss  Sharp 
told  me  something  about  herself  that  explains 
her  porcupine  pose.  That  poor  child  was  en 
gaged  to  a  chap  who  was  killed  in  the  Spanish- 
American  war,  and  she " 

"Kate  Sharp!"  interrupted  Emma  McChes- 
ney.  "Why,  T.  A.  Buck,  in  all  her  vinegary, 
narrow  life,  that  girl  has  never  had  a  beau, 
much  less " 

Buck's  eyebrows  came  up  slightly. 

"Emma  McChesney,  you  haven't  developed 
— er — claws,  have  you?" 

With  a  gasp,  Emma  McChesney  plunged 
into  the  papers  before  her.  For  ten  minutes, 
the  silence  of  the  room  was  unbroken  except 
for  the  crackling  of  papers.  Then  Emma  Mc 
Chesney  put  down  the  first  sheaf  and  looked 
up  at  her  business  partner. 

"Is  that  a  fair  sample?"  she  demanded. 

"Very,"  answered  T.  A.  Buck,  and  handed 
her  another  set. 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

Another  ten  minutes  of  silence.  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  reached  out  a  hand  for  still  another 
set  of  papers.  The  pink  of  repressed  excite 
ment  was  tinting  her  cheeks. 

"They're— they're  all  like  this?" 

"Practically,  yes." 

Mrs.  McChesney  faced  him,  her  eyes  wide, 
her  breath  coming  fast. 

"T.  A.  Buck,"  she  slapped  the  papers  be 
fore  her  smartly  with  the  back  of  her  hand, 
"this  means  youVe  broken  our  record  for  Mid 
dle  Western  sales!" 

"Yes,"  said  T.  A.,  quietly.  "Dad  would 
have  enjoyed  a  morning  like  this,  wouldn't  he?" 

Emma  McChesney  stood  up. 

"Enjoyed  it !  He  is  enjoying  it.  Don't  tell 
me  that  T.  A.,  Senior,  just  because  he  is  no 
longer  on  earth,  has  failed  to  get  the  joy  of 
knowing  that  his  son  has  realized  his  fondest 
dreams.  Why,  I  can  feel  him  here  in  this 
room,  I  can  see  those  bright  brown  eyes  of  his 
twinkling  behind  his  glasses.  Not  know  it !  Of 
course  he  knows  it." 

Buck  looked  down  at  the  desk,  smiling  curi 
ously. 

"D'you  know,  I  felt  that  way,  too." 

[53] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Suddenly  Emma  McChesney  began  to  laugh. 
It  was  not  all  mirth — that  laugh.  Buck 
waited. 

"And  to  think  that  I — I  kindly  and  patroniz 
ingly  handed  you  a  little  book  full  of  tips  on 
how  to  handle  Western  buyers,  The  Salesman's 
Who's  Who' — I,  who  used  to  think  I  was  the 
witch  of  the  West  when  it  came  to  selling! 
You,  on  your  first  selling-trip,  have  made  me 
look  like — like  a  shoe-string  peddler." 

Buck  put  out  a  hand  suddenly. 

"Don't  say  that,  Emma.  I — somehow  it 
takes  away  all  the  pleasure." 

"It's  true.  And  now  that  I  know,  it  explains 
a  lot  of  things  that  I've  been  puzzling  about  in 
the  last  twenty-four  hours." 

"What  kind  of  things?" 

"The  way  you  look  and  act  and  think.  The 
way  you  carry  your  head.  The  way  you  sit  in 
a  chair.  The  very  words  you  use,  your  ges 
tures,  your  intonations.  They're  different." 

T.  A.  Buck,  busy  with  his  cigar,  laughed  a 
little  self-consciously. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  he  said.  "You're  imagin 
ing  things." 

Which    remark,    while    not    a    particularly 

[54] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

happy  one,  certainly  was  not  in  itself  so  unfor 
tunate  as  to  explain  why  Mrs.  McChesney 
should  have  turned  rather  suddenly  and  bolted 
into  her  own  office  across  the  hall  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

T.  A.  Buck,  quite  cool  and  unruffled,  viewed 
her  sudden  departure  quizzically.  Then  he 
took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  stood  eying 
it  a  moment  with  more  attention,  perhaps,  than 
it  deserved,  in  spite  of  its  fine  aroma.  When 
he  put  it  back  between  his  lips  and  sat  down  at 
his  desk  once  more  he  was  smiling  ever  so 
slightly. 

Then  began  a  new  order  of  things  in  the 
offices  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petti 
coat  Company.  Feet  that  once  had  turned  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course  toward  the  door  marked 
"MRS.  McCHESNEY,"  now  took  the  direction 
of  the  door  opposite — and  that  door  bore  the 
name  of  Buck.  Those  four  months  of  Mrs. 
McChesney's  absence  had  put  her  partner  to 
the  test.  That  acid  test  had  washed  away  the 
accumulated  dross  of  years  and  revealed  the 
precious  metal  beneath.  T.  A.  Buck  had  proved 
to  be  his  father's  son. 

If  Mrs.  McChesney  noticed  that  the  head 

[55] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

office  had  miraculously  moved  across  the  hall, 
if  her  sharp  ears  marked  that  the  many  feet 
that  once  had  paused  at  her  door  now  stopped 
at  the  door  opposite,  if  she  realized  that  in 
stead  of,  "I'd  like  your  opinion  on  this,  Mrs. 
McChesney,"  she  often  heard  the  new,  "I'll  ask 
Mr.  Buck,"  she  did  not  show  it  by  word  or  sign. 

The  first  of  October  found  buyers  still  flock 
ing  into  New  York  from  every  State  in  the 
country.  Shrewd  men  and  women,  these — bar 
gain  hunters  on  a  grand  scale.  Armed  with  the 
long  spoon  of  business  knowledge,  they  came 
to  skim  the  cream  from  factory  and  workroom 
products  set  forth  for  their  inspection. 

For  years,  it  had  been  Emma  McChesney's 
quiet  boast  that  of  those  whose  business  brought 
them  to  the  offices  and  showrooms  of  the  T.  A. 
Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company,  the 
foremost  insisted  on  dealing  only  with  her. 
She  was  proud  of  her  following.  She  liked 
their  loyalty.  Their  preference  for  her  was 
the  subtlest  compliment  that  was  in  their  power 
to  pay.  Ethel  Morrissey,  whose  friendship 
dated  back  to  the  days  when  Emma  McChesney 
had  sold  Featherlooms  through  the  Middle 
West,  used  to  say  laughingly,  her  plump,  com- 

[56]' 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

fortable  shoulders  shaking,  "Emma,  if  you 
ever  give  me  away  by  telling  how  many  years 
I've  been  buying  Featherlooms  of  you,  I'll — I'll 
call  down  upon  you  the  spinster's  curse." 

Early  Monday  morning,  Mrs.  McChesney, 
coming  down  the  hall  from  the  workroom,  en 
countered  Miss  Ella  Sweeney,  of  Klein  &  Com 
pany,  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  stepping  out  of  the 
elevator.  A  very  skittish  Miss  Sweeney,  rus 
tling,  preening,  conscious  of  her  dangling  black 
earrings  and  her  Robespierre  collar  and  her 
beauty-patch.  Emma  McChesney  met  this  ap 
parition  with  outstretched,  welcoming  hand. 

"Ella  Sweeney!  Well,  I'd  almost  given  you 
up.  You're  late  this  fall.  Come  into  my  of 
fice." 

She  led  the  way,  not  noticing  that  Miss  Swee 
ney  came  reluctantly,  her  eyes  on  the  closed 
door  across  the  way. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Emma  McChesney,  and 
pulled  a  chair  nearer  her  desk.  uNo;  wait  a 
minute  !  Let  me  look  at  you.  Now,  Ella,  don't 
try  to  tell  me  that  that  dress  came  from  Des 
Moines,  Iowa  !  Do  I !  Why,  child,  it's  distinc 
tive!" 

Miss     Sweeney,     still     standing,     smiled     a 

[57] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

pleased  but  rather  preoccupied  smile.  Her 
eyes  roved  toward  the  door. 

Emma  McChesney,  radiating  good  will  and 
energy,  went  on : 

"Wait  till  you  see  our  new  samples !  You'll 
buy  a  million  dollars'  worth.  Just  let  me  lead 
you  to  our  new  Walk-Easy  bifurcated  skirt. 
We  call  it  the  'one-stepper's  delight.'  "  She 
put  a  hand  on  Ella  Sweeney's  arm,  preparatory 
to  guiding  her  to  the  showrooms  in  the  rear. 
But  Miss  Sweeney's  strange  reluctance  grew 
into  resolve.  A  blush,  as  real  as  it  was  unac 
customed,  arose  to  her  bepowdered  cheeks. 

"Is — I — that  is — Mr.  Buck  is  in,  I  suppose?" 

"Mr.  Buck?    Oh,  yes,  he's  in." 

Miss  Sweeney's  eyes  sought  the  closed  door 
across  the  hall. 

"Is  that— his  office?" 

Emma  McChesney  stiffened  a  little.  Her 
eyes  narrowed  thoughtfully.  "You  have 
guessed  it,"  she  said  crisply.  "Mr.  Buck's 
name  is  on  the  door,  and  you  are  looking  at  it." 

Miss  Sweeney  looked  down,  looked  up, 
twiddled  the  chain  about  her  neck. 

"You  want  to  see  Mr.  Buck?"  asked  Emma 
McChesney  quietly. 

[58] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

Miss  Sweeney  simpered  down  at  her  glove- 
tips,  fluttered  her  eyelids. 

"Well — yes — I — I — you  see,  I  bought  of 
him  this  year,  and  when  you  buy  of  a  person, 
why,  naturally,  you " 

"Naturally;  I  understand." 

She  walked  across  the  hall,  threw  open  the 
door,  and  met  T.  A.  Buck's  glance  coolly. 

"Mr.  Buck,  Miss  Sweeney,  of  Des  Moines, 
is  here,  and  I'm  sure  you  want  to  see  her. 
This  way,  Miss  Sweeney." 

Miss  Sweeney,  sidling,  blushing,  fluttering, 
teetered  in.  Emma  McChesney,  just  before 
she  closed  the  door,  saw  a  little  spasm  cross 
Buck's  face.  It  was  gone  so  quickly,  and  a  ra 
diant  smile  sat  there  so  reassuringly,  that  she 
wondered  if  she  had  not  been  mistaken,  after 
all.  He  had  advanced,  hand  outstretched,  with : 

"Miss  Sweeney!  It — it's  wonderful  to  see 
you  again!  You're  looking " 

The  closed  door  stifled  the  rest.  Emma  Mc 
Chesney,  in  her  office  across  the  way,  stood  a 
moment  in  the  center  of  the  room,  her  hand 
covering  her  eyes.  The  hardy  chrysanthemums 
still  glowed  sunnily  from  their  vase.  The  lit 
tle  room  was  very  quiet  except  for  the  ticking 

[59] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

of  the  smart,  leather-encased  clock  on  the  desk. 
The  closed  door  shut  out  factory  and  office 
sounds.  And  Emma  McChesney  stood  with  one 
hand  over  her  eyes.  So  Napoleon  might  have 
stood  after  Waterloo. 

After  this  first  lesson,  Mrs.  McChesney  did 
not  err  again.  When,  two  days  later,  Miss 
Sharp,  of  Berg  Brothers,  Omaha,  breezed  in, 
looking  strangely  juvenile  and  distinctly  an 
ticipatory,  Emma  greeted  her  smilingly  and 
waved  her  toward  the  door  opposite.  Miss 
Sharp,  the  erstwhile  bristling,  was  strangely 
smooth  and  sleek.  She  glanced  ever  so  softly, 
sighed  ever  so  flutteringly. 

"Working  side  by  side  with  him,  seeing  him 
day  after  day,  how  have  you  been  able  to  re 
sist  him?" 

Emma  McChesney  was  only  human,  after 
all. 

"By  remembering  that  this  is  a  business 
house,  not  a  matrimonial  parlor." 

The  dart  found  no  lodging  place  in  Miss 
Sharp's  sleek  armor.  She  seemed  scarcely  to 
have  heard. 

"My  dear,"  she  whispered,  "his  eyes!  And 
his  manner!  You  must  be — whatchamaycallit 

[60] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

— adamant.  Is  that  the  way  you  pronounce  it? 
You  know  what  I  mean/' 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Emma  McChesney  evenly, 
"I — know  what  you  mean." 

She  told  herself  that  she  was  justified  in  the 
righteous  contempt  which  she  felt  for  this  sort 
of  thing.  A  heart-breaker!  A  cheap  lady- 
killer!  Whereupon  in  walked  Sam  Bloom,  of 
the  Paris  Emporium,  Duluth,  one  of  Mrs.  Mc- 
Chesney's  stanchest  admirers  and  a  long-tried 
business  friend. 

The  usual  thing:  "Younger  than  ever,  Mrs. 
McChesney!  You're  a  wonder — yes,  you  are! 
How's  business?  Same  here.  Going  to  have 
lunch  with  me  to-day?"  Then:  "I'll  just  run 
in  and  see  Buck.  Say,  where's  he  been  keep 
ing  himself  all  these  years?  Chip  off  the  old 
block,  that  boy." 

So  he  had  the  men,  too ! 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  Miss  Ethel 
Morrissey  found  her  on  the  morning  that  she 
came  into  New  York  on  her  semi-annual  buy- 
ing-trip.  Ethel  Morrissey,  plump,  matronly- 
looking,  quiet,  with  her  hair  fast  graying  at  the 
sides,  had  nothing  of  the  skittish  Middle  West 
ern  buyer  about  her.  She  might  have  passed 
[61] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

for  the  mother  of  a  brood  of  six  if  it  were  not 
for  her  eyes — the  shrewd,  twinkling,  far- 
sighted,  reckoning  eyes  of  the  business  woman. 
She  and  Emma  McChesney  had  been  friends 
from  the  day  that  Ethel  Morrissey  had  bought 
her  first  cautious  bill  of  Featherlooms.  Her 
love  for  Emma  McChesney  had  much  of  the 
maternal  in  it.  She  felt  a  personal  pride  in 
Emma  McChesney's  work,  her  success,  her 
clean  reputation,  her  life  of  self-denial  for  her 
son  Jock.  When  Ethel  Morrissey  was  planned 
by  her  Maker,  she  had  not  been  meant  to  be 
wasted  on  the  skirt-and-suit  department  of  a 
small-town  store.  That  broad,  gracious  breast 
had  been  planned  as  a  resting-place  for  heads 
in  need  of  comfort.  Those  plump,  firm  arms 
were  meant  to  enfold  the  weak  and  distressed. 
Those  capable  hands  should  have  smoothed 
troubled  heads  and  patted  plump  cheeks,  in 
stead  of  wasting  their  gifts  in  folding  piles  of 
petticoats  and  deftly  twitching  a  plait  or  a  tuck 
into  place.  She  was  playing  Rosalind  in  bus 
kins  when  she  should  have  been  cast  for  the 
Nurse. 

She  entered  Emma  McChesney's  office,  now, 
in  her  quiet  blue  suit  and  her  neat  hat,  and  she 

[62] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

looked  very  sane  and  cheerful  and  rosy-cheeked 
and  dependable.  At  least,  so  Emma  McChes- 
ney  thought,  as  she  kissed  her,  while  the  plump 
arms  held  her  close. 

Ethel  Morrissey,  the  hugging  process  com 
pleted,  held  her  off  and  eyed  her. 

"Well,  Emma  McChesney,  flourish  your 
Featherlooms  for  me.  I  want  to  buy  and  get  it 
over,  so  we  can  talk." 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  want  to  buy  of  me?" 
asked  Emma  McChesney,  a  little  wearily. 

"What's  the  joke?" 

"I'm  not  joking.  I  thought  that  perhaps  you 
might  prefer  to  see  Mr.  Buck  this  trip." 

Ethel  Morrissey  placed  one  forefinger  under 
Emma  McChesney's  chin  and  turned  that  lady's 
face  toward  her  and  gazed  at  her  long  and 
thoughtfully — the  most  trying  test  of  courage 
in  the  world,  that,  to  one  whose  eyes  fear 
meeting  yours.  Emma  McChesney,  bravest  of 
women,  tried  to  withstand  it,  and  failed.  The 
next  instant  her  head  lay  on  Ethel  Morrissey's 
broad  breast,  her  hands  were  clutching  the 
plump  shoulders,  her  cheek  was  being  patted 
soothingly  by  the  kind  hands. 

"Now,  now — what  is  it,  dear?    Tell  Ethel. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Yes;  I  do  know,  but  tell  me,  anyway.  It'll  do 
you  good." 

And  Emma  McChesney  told  her.  When  she 
had  finished: 

'You  bathe  your  eyes,  Emma,  and  put  on 
your  hat  and  we'll  eat.  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  A 
cup  of  tea,  anyway.  Isn't  there  some  little  cool 
fool  place  where  I  can  be  comfortable  on  a  hot 
day  like  this — where  we  can  talk  comfortably? 
I've  got  at  least  an  hour's  conversation  in  me." 

With  the  first  sip  of  her  first  cup  of  tea, 
Ethel  Morrissey  began  to  unload  that  burden 
of  conversation. 

"Emma,  this  is  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
happened  to  you.  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  The  queer 
thing  about  it  is  that  it  didn't  happen  sooner. 
It  was  bound  to  come.  You  know,  Emma,  the 
Lord  lets  a  woman  climb  just  so  high  up  the 
mountain  of  success.  And  then,  when  she  gets 
too  cocky,  when  she  begins  to  measure  her  wits 
and  brain  and  strength  against  that  of  men, 
and  finds  herself  superior,  he  just  taps  her 
smartly  on  the  head  and  shins,  so  that  she  stum 
bles,  falls,  and  rolls  down  a  few  miles  on  the 
road  she  has  traveled  so  painfully.  He  does 
it  just  as  a  gentle  reminder  to  her  that  she's 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

only  a  woman,  after  all.  Oh,  I  know  all  about 
this  feminist  talk.  But  this  thing's  been  proven. 
Look  at  what  happened  to — to  Joan  of  Arc, 
and  Becky  Sharp,  and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
and — yes,  I  have  been  spending  my  evenings 
reading.  Now,  stop  laughing  at  your  old  Ethel, 
Emma  McChesney!" 

"You  meant  me  to  laugh,  dear  old  thing.  I 
don't  feel  much  like  it,  though.  I  don't  see  why 
I  should  be  reminded  of  my  lowly  state. 
Heaven  knows  I  haven't  been  so  terrifically 
pleased  with  myself!  Of  course,  that  South 
American  trip  was — well,  gratifying.  But  I 
earned  it.  For  ten  years  I  lived  with  head  in  a 
sample-trunk,  didn't  I  ?  I  worked  hard  enough 
to  win  the  love  of  all  these  Westerners.  It 
wasn't  all  walking  dreamily  down  Main  Street, 
strewing  Featherlooms  along  my  path." 

Ethel  Morrissey  stirred  her  second  cup  of 
tea,  sipped,  stirred,  smiled,  then  reached  over 
and  patted  Emma  McChesney's  hand. 

"Emma,  I'm  a  wise  old  party,  and  I  can  see 
that  it  isn't  all  pique  with  you.  It's  something 
else — something  deeper.  Oh,  yes,  it  is !  Now 
let  me  tell  you  what  happened  when  T.  A.  Buck 
invaded  your  old-time  territory.  I  was  busy  up 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

in  my  department  the  morning  he  came  in. 
I  had  my  head  in  a  rack  of  coats,  and  a  henny 
customer  waiting.  But  I  sensed  something  stir 
ring,  and  I  stuck  my  head  out  of  the  coat-rack 
in  which  I  was  fumbling.  The  department  was 
aflutter  like  a  poultry-yard.  Every  woman  in 
it,  from  the  little  new  Swede  stock-girl  to 
Gladys  Hemingway,  who  is  only  working  to 
wear  out  her  old  clothes,  was  standing  with  her 
face  toward  the  elevator,  and  on  her  face  a 
look  that  would  make  the  ordinary  door-mat 
marked  'Welcome'  seem  like  an  insult.  I  kind 
of  smoothed  my  back  hair,  because  I  knew  that 
only  one  thing  could  bring  that  look  into  a  wom 
an's  face.  And  down  the  aisle  came  a  tall,  slim, 
distinguished-looking,  wonderfully  tailored, 
chamois-gloved,  walking-sticked  Fifth  Avenue 
person  with  eyes!  Of  course,  I  knew.  But  the 
other  girls  didn't.  They  just  sort  of  fell  back 
at  his  approach,  smitten.  He  didn't  even  raise 
an  eyebrow  to  do  it.  Now,  Emma,  I'm  not 
exaggerating.  I  know  what  effect  he  had  on 
me  and  my  girls,  and,  for  that  matter,  every 
other  man  or  woman  in  the  store.  Why,  he 
was  a  dream  realized  to  most  of  'em.  These 
shrewd,  clever  buyer-girls  know  plenty  of  men 
[66] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

— business  men  of  the  slap-bang,  horn-blowing, 
bluff,  good-natured,  hello-kid  kind — the  kind 
that  takes  you  out  to  dinner  and  blows  cigar 
smoke  in  your  face.  Along  comes  this  chap,  ele 
gant,  well  dressed  and  not  even  conscious  of  it, 
polished,  suave,  smooth,  low-voiced,  well  bred. 
Why,  when  he  spoke  to  a  girl,  it  was  the  subtlest 
kind  of  flattery.  Can  you  see  little  Sadie  Har 
ris,  of  Duluth,  drawing  a  mental  comparison 
between  Sam  Bloom,  the  store-manager,  and 
this  fascinating  devil — Sam,  red-faced,  loud- 
voiced,  shirt-sleeving  it  around  the  sample- 
room,  his  hat  pushed  'way  back  on  his  head, 
chewing  his  cigar  like  mad,  and  wild-eyed  for 
fear  he's  buying  wrong?  Why,  child,  in  our 
town,  nobody  carries  a  cane  except  the  Elks 
when  they  have  their  annual  parade,  and  old 
man  Schwenkel,  who's  lame.  And  yet  we  all  ac 
cepted  that  yellow  walking-stick  of  Buck's.  It 
belonged  to  him.  There  isn't  a  skirt-buyer  in 
the  Middle  West  that  doesn't  dream  of  him  all 
night  and  push  Featherlooms  in  the  store  all 
day.  Emma,  I'm  old  and  fat  and  fifty,  but 
when  I  had  dinner  with  him  at  the  Manitoba 
House  that  evening,  I  caught  myself  making 
eyes  at  him,  knowing  that  every  woman  in  the 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

dining-room  would  have  given  her  front  teeth 
to  be  where  I  was." 

After  which  extensive  period,  Ethel  Morris- 
sey  helped  herself  to  her  third  cup  of  tea. 
Emma  McChesney  relaxed  a  little  and  laughed 
a  tremulous  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  I  must  not  hope  to  com 
bat  such  formidable  rivals  as  walking-sticks, 
chamois  gloves,  and  eyes.  My  business  argu 
ments  are  futile  compared  to  those." 

Ethel  Morrissey  delivered  herself  of  a  last 
shot. 

"You're  wrong,  Emma.  Those  things  helped 
him,  but  they  didn't  sell  his  line.  He  sold 
Featherlooms  out  of  salesmanship,  and  because 
he  sounded  convincing  and  sincere  and  business 
like — and  he  had  the  samples.  It  wasn't  all 
bunk.  It  was  three-quarters  business.  Those 
two  make  an  invincible  combination." 

An  hour  later,  Ethel  Morrissey  was 
shrewdly  selecting  her  winter  line  of  Feather- 
looms  from  the  stock  in  the  showrooms  of  the 
T.  A.  Buck  Company.  They  went  about  their 
business  transaction,  these  two,  with  the  cool 
abruptness  of  men,  speaking  little,  and  then 
only  of  prices,  discounts,  dating,  shipping. 
[68] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

Their  luncheon  conversation  of  an  hour  before 
seemed  an  impossibility. 

"You'll  have  dinner  with  me  to-night?" 
Emma  asked.  "Up  at  my  apartment,  all 
cozy?" 

"Not  to-night,  dearie.  I'll  be  in  bed  by 
eight.  I'm  not  the  girl  I  used  to  be.  Time  was 
when  a  New  York  buying-trip  was  a  vacation. 
Now  it's  a  chore." 

She  took  Emma  McChesney's  hand  and 
patted  it. 

"If  you've  got  something  real  nice  for  din 
ner,  though,  and  feel  like  company,  why  don't 
you  ask — somebody  else  that's  lonesome." 

After  which,  Ethel  Morrissey  laughed  her 
wickedest  and  waved  a  sudden  good-by  with  a 
last  word  about  seeing  her  to-morrow. 

Emma  McChesney,  her  color  high,  entered 
her  office.  It  was  five  o'clock.  She  cleared  her 
desk  in  half  an  hour,  breathed  a  sigh  of  weari 
ness,  reached  for  hat  and  jacket,  donned  them, 
and,  turning  out  her  lights,  closed  her  door  be 
hind  her  for  the  day.  At  that  same  instant, 
T.  A.  Buck  slammed  his  own  door  and  walked 
briskly  down  the  hall.  They  met  at  the  ele 
vator. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

They  descended  in  silence.  The  street  gained, 
they  paused  uncertainly. 

"Won't  you  stay  down  and  have  dinner  with 
me  to-night,  Emma?" 

"Thanks  so  much,  T.  A.     Not  to-night." 

"I'm— sorry." 

"Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

She  turned  away.  He  stood  there,  in  the 
busy  street,  looking  irresolutely  and  not  at  all 
eagerly  in  the  direction  of  his  club,  perhaps, 
or  his  hotel,  or  whatever  shelter  he  sought  after 
business  hours.  Something  in  his  attitude — the 
loneliness  of  it,  the  uncertainty,  the  indecision 
— smote  Emma  McChesney  with  a  great  pang. 
She  came  swiftly  back. 

"I  wish  you'd  come  home  to  dinner  with  me. 
I  don't  know  what  Annie'll  give  us.  Probably 
bread  pudding.  She  does,  when  she's  left  to 
her  own  devices.  But  I — I  wish  you  would." 
She  looked  up  at  him  almost  shyly. 

T.  A.  Buck  took  Emma  McChesney's  arm  in 
a  rather  unnecessarily  firm  grip  and  propelled 
her,  surprised  and  protesting,  in  the  direction 
of  the  nearest  vacant  taxi. 

"But,  T.  A.!    This  is  idiotic!    Why  take  a 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

cab  to  go  home  from  the  office  on  a — a  week 
day?" 

uln  with  you!  Besides,  I  never  have  a 
chance  to  take  one  from  the  office  on  Sunday, 
do  I?  Does  Annie  always  cook  enough  for 
two?" 

Apparently  Annie  did.  Annie  was  something 
of  a  witch,  in  her  way.  She  whisked  about, 
wrought  certain  changes,  did  things  with  aspar 
agus  and  mayonnaise,  lighted  the  rose-shaded 
table-candles.  No  one  noticed  that  dinner  was 
twenty  minutes  late. 

Together  they  admired  the  great  mahogany 
buffet  that  Emma  had  miraculously  found  space 
for  in  the  little  dining-room. 

"It  glows  like  a  great,  deep  ruby,  doesn't  it?" 
she  said  proudly.  "You  should  see  Annie  circle 
around  it  with  the  carpet-sweeper.  She  knows 
one  bump  would  be  followed  by  instant  death." 

Looking  back  on  it,  afterward,  they  remem 
bered  that  the  dinner  was  a  very  silent  one. 
They  did  not  notice  their  wordlessness  at  the 
time.  Once,  when  the  chops  came  on,  Buck 
said  absently, 

"Oh,   I   had  those   for  1 "     Then  he 

stopped  abruptly. 

[71] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Emma  McChesney  smiled. 

uYour  mother  trained  you  well,"  she  said. 

The  October  night  had  grown  cool.  Annie 
had  lighted  a  wood  fire  in  the  living-room. 

"That  was  what  attracted  me  to  this  apart 
ment  in  the  first  place,"  Mrs.  McChesney  said, 
as  they  left  the  dining-room.  "A  fireplace — a 
practical,  real,  wood-burning  fireplace  in  a  New 
York  apartment!  I'd  have  signed  the  lease  if 
the  plaster  had  been  falling  in  chunks  and  the 
bathtub  had  been  zinc." 

"That's  because  fireplaces  mean  home — in 
our  minds,"  said  Buck. 

He  sat  looking  into  the  heart  of  the  glow. 
There  fell  another  of  those  comfortable  si 
lences. 

"T.  A.,  I — I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  know 
I've  been  acting  the  cat  ever  since  I  got  home 
from  South  America  and  found  that  you  had 
taken  charge.  You  see,  you  had  spoiled  me. 
The  thing  that  has  happened  to  me  is  the  thing 
that  always  happens  to  those  who  assume  to 
be  dictators.  I  just  want  you  to  know,  now, 
that  I'm  glad  and  proud  and  happy  because 
you  have  come  into  your  own.  It  hurt  me  just 
at  first.  That  was  the  pride  of  me.  I'm  quite 

[72] 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

over  that  now.  You're  not  only  president  of 
the  T.  A.  Buck  Company  in  name.  You're  its 
actual  head.  And  that's  as  it  should  be.  Long 
live  the  King!" 

Buck  sat  silent  a  moment.     Then, 

"I  had  to  do  it,  Emma."  She  looked  up. 
"You  have  a  wonderful  brain,"  said  Buck  then, 
and  the  two  utterances  seemed  connected  in  his 
mind. 

They  seemed  to  bring  no  great  satisfaction 
to  the  woman  to  whom  he  addressed  them, 
however.  She  thanked  him  dryly,  as  women  do 
when  their  brain  is  dragged  into  an  intimate 
conversation. 

"But,"  said  Buck,  and  suddenly  stood  up, 
looking  at  her  very  intently,  "it  isn't  for  your 
mind  that  I  love  you  this  minute.  I  love  you 
for  your  eyes,  Emma,  and  for  your  mouth — 
you  have  the  tenderest,  most  womanly-sweet 
mouth  in  the  world — and  for  your  hair,  and  the 
way  your  chin  curves.  I  love  you  for  your 
throat-line,  and  for  the  way  you  walk  and  talk 
and  sit,  for  the  way  you  look  at  me,  and  for 
the  way  you  don't  look  at  me." 

He  reached  down  and  gathered  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney,  the  alert,  the  aggressive,  the  capable, 

[73] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

into  his  arms,  quite  as  men  gather  the  clinging- 
est  kind  of  woman.  "And  now  suppose  you 
tell  me  just  why  and  how  you  love  me." 

And  Emma  McChesney  told  him. 

When,  at  last,  he  was  leaving, 

"Don't  you  think,"  asked  Emma  McChes 
ney,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  "that  you 
overdid  the  fascination  thing  just  the  least  lee- 
tie  bit  there  on  the  road?" 

"Well,  but  you  told  me  to  entertain  them, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  reluctantly;  "but  I  didn't  tell  you  to 
consecrate  your  life  to  'em.  The  ordinary  fat, 
middle-aged,  every-day  traveling  man  will 
never  be  able  to  sell  Featherlooms  in  the  Mid 
dle  West  again.  They  won't  have  'em.  They'll 
never  be  satisfied  with  anything  less  than  John 
Drew  after  this." 

"Emma  McChesney,  you're  not  marrying  me 
because  a  lot  of  overdressed,  giggling,  skittish 
old  girls  have  taken  a  fancy  to  make  eyes  at  me, 
are  you!" 

Emma  McChesney  stood  up  very  straight 
and  tall. 

"I'm  marrying  you,  T.  A.,  because  you  are 

[74] 


'He  gathered  Emma  McChesney  into  his  arms,  quite  as  men  gather 
the  clingingest  kind  of  women" — Page  74 


THANKS  TO  MISS  MORRISSEY 

a  great,  big,  fine,  upstanding,  tender,  wonder 
ful " 

"Oh,  well,  then  that's  all  right,"  broke  in 
Buck,  a  little  tremulously. 

Emma  McChesney's  face  grew  serious. 

"But  promise  me  one  thing,  T.  A.  Promise 
me  that  when  you  come  home  for  dinner  at 
night,  you'll  never  say,  'Good  heavens,  I  had 
that  for  lunch!'" 


[75] 


Ill 

A   CLOSER   CORPORATION 

FRONT  offices  resemble  back  kitchens  in 
this :  they  have  always  an  ear  at  the  key 
hole,  an  eye  at  the  crack,  a  nose  in  the  air.  But 
between  the  ordinary  front  office  and  the  front 
office  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat 
Company  there  was  a  difference.  The  em 
ployees  at  Buck's — from  Emil,  the  errand  boy, 
to  old  Pop  Henderson,  who  had  started  as 
errand  boy  himself  twenty-five  years  before — 
possessed  the  quality  of  loyalty.  They  were 
loyal  to  the  memory  of  old  man  Buck,  because 
they  had  loved  and  respected  him.  They  were 
loyal  to  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  because  she 
was  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney  (which  amounts 
to  the  same  reason).  They  were  loyal  to  T. 
A.  Buck,  because  he  was  his  father's  son. 

For  three  weeks  the  front  office  had  been  be 
wildered.  From  bewilderment  it  passed  to 
worry.  A  worried,  bewildered  front  office  is 

[76] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

not  an  efficient  front  office.  Ever  since  Mrs. 
McChesney  had  come  off  the  road,  at  the  death 
of  old  T.  A.  Buck,  to  assume  the  secretaryship 
of  the  company  which  she  had  served  faith 
fully  for  ten  years,  she  had  set  an  example  for 
the  entire  establishment.  She  was  the  pace 
maker.  Every  day  of  her  life  she  figuratively 
pressed  the  electric  button  that  set  the  wheels 
to  whirring.  At  nine  A.M.,  sharp,  she  appeared, 
erect,  brisk,  alert,  vibrating  energy.  Usually, 
the  office  staff  had  not  yet  swung  into  its  gait. 
In  a  desultory  way,  it  had  been  getting  into  its 
sateen  sleevelets,  adjusting  its  eye-shades,  un 
covering  its  typewriter,  opening  its  ledgers, 
bringing  out  its  files.  Then,  down  the  hall, 
would  come  the  sound  of  a  firm,  light,  buoyant 
step.  An  electric  thrill  would  pass  through  the 
front  office.  Then  the  sunny,  sincere,  "Good 
morning!" 

"  'Morning,  Mrs.  McChesney!"  the  front  of 
fice  would  chorus  back. 

The  day  had  begun  for  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Featherloom  Petticoat  Company. 

Hortense,  the  blond  stenographer  (engaged 
to  the  shipping-clerk),  noticed  it  first.  The 
psychology  of  that  is  interesting.  Hortense 

[77] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

knew  that  by  nine-thirty  Mrs.  McChesney's  desk 
would  be  clear  and  that  the  buzzer  would  sum 
mon  her.  Hortense  didn't  mind  taking  dicta 
tion  from  T.  A.  Buck,  though  his  method  was 
hesitating  and  jerky,  and  he  was  likely  to  em 
ploy  quite  casually  a  baffling  and  unaccustomed 
word,  over  which  Hortense's  scampering  pencil 
would  pause,  struggle  desperately,  then  race 
on.  Hortense  often  was  in  for  a  quick,  fur 
tive  session  with  her  pocket-dictionary  after  one 
of  T.  A.'s  periods.  But  with  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney,  dictation  was  a  joy.  She  knew  what  she 
wanted  to  say  and  she  always  said  it.  The 
words  she  used  were  short,  clean-cut,  mean 
ingful  Anglo-Saxon  words.  She  never  used  re 
ceived  when  she  could  use  got.  Hers  was  the 
rapid-fire-gun  method,  each  word  sharp,  well 
timed,  efficient. 

Imagine,  then,  Hortense  staring  wide-eyed 
and  puzzled  at  a  floundering,  hesitating,  absent- 
minded  Mrs.  McChesney — a  Mrs.  McChesney 
strangely  starry  as  to  eyes,  strangely  dreamy  as 
to  mood,  decidedly  deficient  as  to  dictation. 
Imagine  a  Hortense  with  pencil  poised  in  air 
a  full  five  minutes,  waiting  until  Mrs.  McChes 
ney  should  come  to  herself  with  a  start,  frown, 

[78] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

smile  vaguely,  pass  a  hand  over  her  eyes,  and 
say,  "Let  me  see — where  was  I?" 

"  'And  we  find,  on  referring  to  your  order, 

that  the  goods  you  mention '  "  Hortense 

would  prompt  patiently. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  with  an  effort.  Hor 
tense  was  beginning  to  grow  alarmed. 

In  T.  A.  Buck's  office,  just  across  the  hall, 
the  change  was  quite  as  noticeable,  but  in  an 
other  way.  His  leisurely  drawl  was  gone.  His 
deliberate  manner  was  replaced  by  a  brisk, 
quick-thinking,  quick-speaking  one.  His  words 
were  brief  and  to  the  point.  He  seemed  to 
be  riding  on  the  crest  of  an  excitement-wave. 
And,  as  he  dictated,  he  smiled. 

Hortense  stood  it  for  a  week.  Then  she  un 
burdened  herself  to  Miss  Kelly,  the  assistant 
bookkeeper.  Miss  Kelly  evinced  no  surprise  at 
her  disclosures. 

"I  was  just  talking  about  it  to  Pop  yester 
day.  She  acts  worried,  doesn't  she  ?  And  yet, 
not  exactly  worried,  either.  Do  you  suppose 
it  can  be  that  son  of  hers — what's  his  name? 
Jock." 

Hortense  shook  her  head. 

"No;  he's  all  right.     She  had  a  letter  from 

[79] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

him  yesterday.  He's  got  a  grand  position  in 
Chicago,  and  he's  going  to  marry  that  girl  he 
was  so  stuck  on  here.  And  it  isn't  that,  either, 
because  Mrs.  McChesney  likes  her.  I  can  tell 
by  the  way  she  talks  about  her.  I  ought  to 
know.  Look  how  Henry's  ma  acted  toward 
me  when  we  were  first  engaged!" 

The  front  office  buzzed  with  it.  It  crept  into 
the  workroom — into  the  shipping-room.  It 
penetrated  the  frowsy  head  of  Jake,  the  eleva 
tor-man.  As  the  days  went  on  and  the  tempo 
of  the  front  office  slackened  with  that  of  the 
two  bright  little  inner  offices,  only  one  member 
of  the  whole  staff  remained  unmoved,  incuri 
ous,  taciturn.  Pop  Henderson  listened,  one 
scant  old  eyebrow  raised  knowingly,  a  whimsi 
cal  half-smile  screwing  up  his  wrinkled  face. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks,  Hortense,  with 
that  display  of  temperament  so  often  encoun 
tered  in  young  ladies  of  her  profession,  an 
nounced  in  desperation  that,  if  this  thing  kept 
on,  she  was  going  to  forget  herself  and  jeopar 
dize  her  position  by  demanding  to  know  out 
right  what  the  trouble  was. 

From  the  direction  of  Pop  Henderson's  inky 
retreat,  there  came  the  sound  of  a  dry  chuckle. 

[so] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

Pop  Henderson  had  been  chuckling  in  just  that 
way  for  three  weeks,  now.  It  was  getting  on 
the  nerves  of  his  colleagues. 

"If  you  ever  spring  the  joke  that's  kept  you 
giggling  for  a  month,"  snapped  Hortense,  "it'll 
break  up  the  office." 

Pop  Henderson  removed  his  eye-shade  very 
deliberately,  passed  his  thin,  cramped  old  hand 
over  his  scant  gray  locks  to  his  bald  spot, 
climbed  down  stiffly  from  his  stool,  ambled  to 
the  center  of  the  room,  and,  head  cocked  like 
a  knowing  old  brown  sparrow,  regarded  the 
pert  Hortense  over  his  spectacles  and  under 
his  spectacles  and,  finally,  through  his  spec 
tacles. 

"Young  folks  now'days,"  began  Pop  Hen 
derson  dryly,  "are  so  darned  cute  and  knowin' 
that  when  an  old  fellow  cuts  in  ahead  of  'em 
for  once,  he  likes  to  hug  the  joke  to  himself  a 
while  before  he  springs  it."  There  was  no  acid 
in  his  tone.  He  was  beaming  very  benignantly 
down  upon  the  little  blond  stenographer.  "You 
say  that  Mrs.  Mack  is  absent-minded-like  and 
dreamy,  and  that  young  T.  A.  acts  like  he'd 
swallowed  an  electric  battery.  Well,  when  it 
comes  to  that,  I've  seen  you  many  a  time,  when 
[81] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

you  didn't  know  any  one  was  lookin',  just  sitting 
there  at  your  typewriter,  with  your  hands  kind 
of  poised  halfway,  and  your  lips  sort  of  parted, 
and  your  eyes  just  gazing  away  somewhere  off 
in  the  distance  for  fifteen  minutes  at  a  stretch. 
And  out  there  in  the  shipping-room  Henry's 
singing  like  a  whole  minstrel  troupe  all  day 
long,  when  he  isn't  whistlin'  so  loud  you  can 
hear  him  over  's  far  as  Eighth  Avenue."  Then, 
as  the  red  surged  up  through  the  girl's  fair 
skin,  "Well?"  drawled  old  Pop  Henderson,  and 
the  dry  chuckle  threatened  again.  "We-e-ell?" 

"Why,  Pop  Henderson!"  exploded  Miss- 
Kelly  from  her  cage.  "Why — Pop — Hender 
son!" 

In  those  six  words  the  brisk  and  agile-minded 
Miss  Kelly  expressed  the  surprise  and  the  awed 
conviction  of  the  office  staff. 

Pop  Henderson  trotted  over  to  the  water- 
cooler,  drew  a  brimming  glass,  drank  it  off, 
and  gave  vent  to  a  great  exhaust  of  breath. 
He  tried  not  to  strut  as  he  crossed  back  to  his 
desk,  climbed  his  stool,  adjusted  his  eye-shade, 
and,  with  a  last  throaty  chuckle,  plunged  into 
his  books  again. 

But  his  words  already  were  working  their 
[82] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

wonders.  The  office,  after  the  first  shock,  was 
flooded  with  a  new  atmosphere — a  subtle,  per 
vasive  air  of  hushed  happiness,  of  tender  solici 
tude.  It  went  about  like  a  mother  who  has 
found  her  child  asleep  at  play,  and  who  steals 
away  atiptoe,  finger  on  lip,  lips  smiling  ten 
derly. 

The  delicate  antennas  of  Emma  McChesney's 
mind  sensed  the  change.  Perhaps  she  read 
something  in  the  glowing  eyes  of  her  sister-in- 
love,  Hortense.  Perhaps  she  caught  a  new 
tone  in  Miss  Kelly's  voice  or  the  forewoman's. 
Perhaps  a  whisper  from  the  outer  office  reached 
her  desk.  The  very  afternoon  of  Pop  Hender 
son's  electrifying  speech,  Mrs.  McChesney 
crossed  to  T.  A.  Buck's  office,  shut  the  door 
after  her,  lowered  her  voice  discreetly,  and 
said, 

UT.  A.,  they're  on." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Nothing.  That  is,  nothing  definite.  No 
man-reason.  Just  a  woman-reason." 

T.  A.  Buck  strolled  over  to  her,  smiling. 

"I  haven't  known  you  all  this  time  without 
having  learned  that  that's  reason  enough.  And 
if  they  really  do  know,  I'm  glad." 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"But  we  didn't  want  them  to  know.  Not 
yet — until — until  just  before  the " 

T.  A.  Buck  laid  his  hands  lightly  on  Emma 
McChesney's  shoulders.  Emma  McChesney 
promptly  reached  up  and  removed  them. 

"There  you  are!"  exclaimed  Buck,  and 
rammed  the  offending  hands  into  his  pockets. 
"That's  why  I'm  glad  they  know — if  they  really 
do  know.  I'm  no  actor.  I'm  a  skirt-and-lin- 
gerie  manufacturer.  For  the  last  six  weeks,  in 
stead  of  being  allowed  to  look  at  you  with  the 
expression  that  a  man  naturally  wears  when 
he's  looking  at  the  woman  he's  going  to  marry, 
what  have  I  had  to  do?  Glare,  that's  what! 
Scowl !  Act  like  a  captain  of  finance  when  I've 
felt  like  a  Romeo !  I've  had  to  be  dry,  terse, 
businesslike,  when  I  was  bursting  with  adjec 
tives  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  business. 
You've  avoided  my  office  as  you  would  a  small 
pox  camp.  You've  greeted  me  with  a  what- 
can-I-do-for-you  air  when  I've  dared  to  invade 
yours.  You  couldn't  have  been  less  cordial  to  a 
book  agent.  If  it  weren't  for  those  two  hours 
you  grant  me  in  the  evening,  I'd — I'd  blow  up 
with  a  loud  report,  that's  what.  I'd " 

"Now,  now,  T.  A. !"  interrupted  Emma  Me- 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

Chesney  soothingly,  and  patted  one  gesticulat 
ing  arm.  "It  has  been  a  bit  of  a  strain — for 
both  of  us.  But,  you  know,  we  agreed  it  would 
be  best  this  way.  We've  ten  days  more  to  go. 
Let's  stick  it  out  as  we've  begun.  It  has  been 
best  for  us,  for  the  office,  for  the  business.  The 
next  time  you  find  yourself  choked  up  with  a 
stock  of  fancy  adjectives,  write  a  sonnet  to  me. 
Work  'em  off  that  way." 

T.  A.  Buck  stood  silent  a  moment,  regarding 
her  with  a  concentration  that  would  have  un 
nerved  a  woman  less  poised. 

"Emma  McChesney,  when  you  talk  like  that, 
so  coolly,  so  evenly,  so — so  darned  mentally,  I 
sometimes  wonder  if  you  really " 

"Don't  say  it,  T.  A.  Because  you  don't 
mean  it.  I've  had  to  fight  for  most  of  my 
happiness.  I've  never  before  found  it  ready 
at  hand.  I've  always  had  to  dig  for  it  with 
a  shovel  and  a  spade  and  a  pickax,  and  then 
blast.  I  had  almost  twenty  years  of  that — 
from  the  time  I  was  eighteen  until  I  was  thirty- 
eight.  It  taught  me  to  take  my  happiness  seri- 
ously  and  my  troubles  lightly."  She  shut  her 
eyes  for  a  moment,  and  her  voice  was  very  low 
and  very  deep  and  very  vibrant.  "So,  when  I'm 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

coolest  and  evenest  and  most  mental,  T.  A., 
you  may  know  that  I've  struck  gold." 

A  great  glow  illumined  Buck's  fine  eyes.  He 
took  two  quick  steps  in  her  direction.  But 
Emma  McChesney,  one  hand  on  the  door-knob, 
warned  him  off  with  the  other. 

uHey — wait  a  minute !"  pleaded  Buck. 

"Can't.  I've  a  fitting  at  the  tailor's  at  three- 
thirty — my  new  suit.  Wait  till  you  see  it!" 

"The  dickens  you  have!  But  so  have  I" — 
he  jerked  out  his  watch — "at  three-thirty !  It's 
the  suit  I'm  going  to  wear  when  I  travel  as  a 
blushing  bridegroom." 

"So's  mine.  And  look  here,  T.  A. !  We 
can't  both  leave  this  place  for  a  fitting.  It's 
absurd.  If  this  keeps  on,  it  will  break  up  the 
business.  We'll  have  to  get  married  one  at  a 
time — or,  at  least,  get  our  trousseaux  one  at  a 
time.  What's  your  suit?" 

"Sort  of  brown." 

"Brown?  So's  mine !  Good  heavens,  T.  A., 
we'll  look  like  a  minstrel  troupe!" 

Buck  sighed  resignedly. 

"If  I  telephone  my  tailor  that  I  can't  make  it 
until  four-thirty,  will  you  promise  to  be  back 
by  that  time?" 

[86] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

"Yes;  but  remember,  if  your  bride  appears 
in  a  skirt  that  sags  in  the  back  or  a  coat  that 
bunches  across  the  shoulders,  the  crime  will  lie 
at  your  door." 

So  it  was  that  the  lynx-eyed  office  staff  began 
to  wonder  if,  after  all,  Pop  Henderson  was  the 
wizard  that  he  had  claimed  to  be. 

During  working  hours,  Mrs.  McChesney 
held  rigidly  to  business.  Her  handsome  part 
ner  tried  bravely  to  follow  her  example.  If  he 
failed  occasionally,  perhaps  Emma  McChesney 
was  not  so  displeased  as  she  pretended  to  be. 
A  business  discussion,  deeply  interesting  to  both, 
was  likely  to  run  thus : 

Buck,  entering  her  office  briskly,  papers  in 
hand:  "Mrs.  McChesney — ahem! — I  have 
here  a  letter  from  Singer  &  French,  Columbus, 
Ohio.  They  ask  for  an  extension.  They've 
had  ninety  days." 

"That's  enough.  That  firm's  slow  pay,  and 
always  will  be  until  old  Singer  has  the  good 
taste  and  common  sense  to  retire.  It  isn't  be 
cause  the  stock  doesn't  move.  Singer  simply 
believes  in  not  paying  for  anything  until  he  has 
to.  If  I  were  you,  I'd  write  him  that  this 
is  a  business  house,  not  a  charitable  institu- 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

tion No,  don't  do  that.  It  isn't  politic. 

But  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"H'm;  yes."  A  silence.  uEmma,  that's  a 
fiendishly  becoming  gown." 

"Now,T.A.!" 

"But  it  is!  It — it's  so  kind  of  loose,  and 
yet  clinging,  and  those  white  collar-and-cuff 
things " 

"T.  A.  Buck,  I've  worn  this  thing  down  to 
the  office  every  day  for  a  month.  It  shines  in 
the  back.  Besides,  you  promised  not  to " 

"Oh,  darn  it  all,  Emma,  I'm  human,  you 
know !  How  do  you  suppose  I  can  stand  here 
and  look  at  you  and  not " 

Emma  McChesney  (pressing  the  buzzer  that 
summons  Hortense)  :  "You  know,  Tim,  I 
don't  exactly  hate  you  this  morning,  either.  But 
business  is  business.  Stop  looking  at  me  like 
that!"  Then,  to  Hortense,  in  the  doorway: 
"Just  take  this  letter,  Miss  Stotz — Singer  & 
French,  Columbus,  Ohio.  Dear  Sirs:  Yours 
of  the  tenth  at  hand.  Period.  Regarding  your 
request  for  further  extension  we  wish  to  say 
that,  in  view  of  the  fact " 

T.  A.  Buck,  half  resentful,  half  amused, 
wholly  admiring,  would  disappear  But  Hor- 
[88] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

tense,  eyes  demurely  cast  down  at  her  note 
book,  was  not  deceived. 

"Say,"  she  confided  to  Miss  Kelly,  "they 
think  they've  got  me  fooled.  But  I'm  wise. 
Don't  I  know?  When  Henry  passes  through 
the  office  here,  from  the  shipping-room,  he 
looks  at  me  just  as  cool  and  indifferent.  Before 
we  announced  it,  we  had  you  all  guessing,  didn't 
we?  But  I  can  see  something  back  of  that 
look  that  the  rest  of  you  can't  get.  Well,  when 
Mr.  Buck  looks  at  her,  I  can  see  the  same  thing 
in  his  eyes.  Say,  when  it  comes  to  seeing  the 
love-light  through  the  fog,  I'm  there  with  the 
spy-glass." 

If  Emma  McChesney  held  herself  well  in 
leash  during  the  busy  day,  she  relished  her  hap 
piness  none  the  less  when  she  could  allow  her 
self  the  full  savor  of  it.  When  a  girl  of  eight 
een  she  had  married  a  man  of  the  sort  that 
must  put  whisky  into  his  stomach  before  the 
machinery  of  his  day  would  take  up  its  creak 
ing  round.  Out  of  the  degradation  of  that  mar 
riage  she  had  emerged  triumphantly,  sweet  and 
unsullied,  and  she  had  succeeded  in  bringing 
her  son,  Jock  McChesney,  out  into  the  clear 
sunlight  with  her. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

The  evenings  spent  with  T.  A.  Buck,  the 
man  of  fine  instincts,  of  breeding,  of  proven 
worth,  of  rare  tenderness,  filled  her  with  a  great 
peace  and  happiness.  When  doubts  assailed 
her,  it  was  not  for  herself  but  for  him.  Some 
times  the  fear  would  clutch  her  as  they  sat 
before  the  fire  in  the  sitting-room  of  her  com 
fortable  little  apartment.  She  would  voice 
those  fears  for  the  very  joy  of  having  them 
stilled. 

"T.  A.,  this  is  too  much  happiness.  I'm — 
I'm  afraid.  After  all,  you're  a  young  man, 
though  you  are  a  bit  older  than  I  in  actual  years. 
But  men  of  your  age  marry  girls  of  eighteen. 
You're  handsome.  And  you've  brains,  family, 
breeding,  money.  Any  girl  in  New  York  would 
be  glad  to  marry  you — those  tall,  slim,  exquisite 
young  girls.  Young!  And  well  bred,  and 
poised  and  fresh  and  sweet  and  lovable.  You 
see  them  every  day  on  Fifth  Avenue,  exquisitely 
dressed,  entirely  desirable.  They  make  me  feel 
— old — old  and  battered.  I've  sold  goods  on 
the  road.  I've  fought  and  worked  and  strug 
gled.  And  it  has  left  its  mark.  I  did  it  for 
the  boy,  God  bless  him!  And  I'm  glad  I  did 

[90] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

it.  But  it  put  me  out  of  the  class  of  that  girl 
you  see  on " 

"Yes,  Emma;  you're  not  at  all  in  the  class 
with  that  girl  you  see  every  day  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue.  Fifth  Avenue's  full  of  her — hundreds  of 
her,  thousands  of  her.  Perhaps,  five  years  ago, 
before  I  had  worked  side  by  side  with  you,  I 
might  have  been  attracted  by  that  girl  you  see 
every  day  on  Fifth  Avenue.  You  don't  see  a 
procession  of  Emma  McChesneys  every  day  on 
Fifth  Avenue — not  by  a  long  shot !  Why?  Be 
cause  there's  only  one  of  her.  She  doesn't  come 
in  dozen  lots.  I  know  that  that  girl  you  see 
every  day  on  Fifth  Avenue  is  all  that  I  deserve. 
But,  by  some  heaven-sent  miracle,  I'm  to  have 
this  Emma  McChesney  woman !  I  don't  know 
how  it  came  to  be  true.  I  don't  deserve  it. 
But  it  is  true,  and  that's  enough  for  me." 

Emma  McChesney  would  look  up  at  him, 
eyes  wet,  mouth  smiling. 

"T.  A.,  you're  balm  and  myrrh  and  incense 
and  meat  and  drink  to  me.  I  wish  I  had  words 
to  tell  you  what  I'm  thinking  now.  But  I 
haven't.  So  I'll  just  cover  it  up.  We  both 
know  it's  there.  And  I'll  tell  you  that  you 
make  love  like  a  'movie'  hero.  Yes,  you  do! 

[91] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Better  than  a  'movie'  hero,  because,  in  the  films, 
the  heroine  always  has  to  turn  to  face  the  cam 
era,  which  makes  it  necessary  for  him  to  make 
love  down  the  back  of  her  neck." 

But  T.  A.  Buck  was  unsmiling. 

"Don't  trifle,  Emma.  And  don't  think  you 
can  fool  me  that  way.  I  haven't  finished.  I 
want  to  settle  this  Fifth  Avenue  creature  for 
all  time.  What  I  have  to  say  is  this :  I  think 
you  are  more  attractive — finer,  bigger,  more 
rounded  in  character  and  manner,  mellower, 
sweeter,  sounder,  with  all  your  angles  and  cor 
ners  rubbed  smooth,  saner,  better  poised  than 
any  woman  I  have  ever  known.  And  what  I 
am  to-day  you  have  made  me,  directly  and  in 
directly,  by  association  and  by  actual  orders,  by 
suggestion,  and  by  direct  contact.  What  you 
did  for  Jock,  purposefully  and  by  force,  you 
did  for  me,  too.  Not  so  directly,  perhaps, 
but  with  the  same  result.  Emma  McChesney, 
you've  made — actually  made,  molded,  shaped, 
and  turned  out  two  men.  You're  the  greatest 
sculptor  that  ever  lived.  You  could  make  a 
scarecrow  in  a  field  get  up  and  achieve.  Every 
where  one  sees  women  over-wrought,  over-stim 
ulated,  eager,  tense.  When  there  appears  one 

[92] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

who  has  herself  in  leash,  balanced,  tolerant, 
poised,  sane,  composed,  she  restores  your  faith 
in  things.  You  lean  on  her,  spiritually.  I  know 
I  need  you  more  than  you  need  me,  Emma. 
And  I  know  you  won't  love  me  the  less  for 
that.  There — that's  about  all  for  this  even 
ing." 

"I  think,"  breathed  Emma  McChesney  in 
a  choked  little  voice,  uthat  that's  about — 
enough." 

Two  days  before  the  date  set  for  their  very 
quiet  wedding,  they  told  the  heads  of  office  and 
workroom.  Office  and  workroom,  somewhat 
moist  as  to  eye  and  flushed  as  to  cheek  and 
highly  congratulatory,  proved  their  knowing- 
ness  by  promptly  presenting  to  their  employers 
a  very  costly  and  unbelievably  hideous  set  of 
mantel  ornaments  and  clock,  calculated  to  strike 
horror  to  the  heart  of  any  woman  who  has 
lovingly  planned  the  furnishing  of  her  drawing- 
room.  Pop  Henderson,  after  some  prelimi 
nary  wrestling  with  collar,  necktie,  spectacles, 
and  voice,  launched  forth  on  a  presentation 
speech  that  threatened  to  close  down  the  works 
for  the  day.  Emma  McChesney  heard  it,  tears 
in  her  eyes.  T.  A.  Buck  gnawed  his  mustache. 

[93] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

And  when  Pop  Henderson's  cracked  old  voice 
broke  altogether  in  the  passage  that  touched  on 
his  departed  employer,  old  T.  A.  Buck,  and  the 
great  happiness  that  this  occasion  would  have 
brought  him,  Emma's  hand  met  young  T.  A.'s 
and  rested  there.  Hortense  and  Henry,  stand 
ing  very  close  together  all  through  the  speech, 
had,  in  this  respect,  anticipated  their  employers 
by  several  minutes. 

They  were  to  be  away  two  weeks  only.  No 
one  knew  just  where,  except  that  some  small 
part  of  the  trip  was  to  be  spent  on  a  flying  visit 
to  young  Jock  McChesney  out  in  Chicago.  He 
himself  was  to  be  married  very  soon.  Emma 
McChesney  had  rather  startled  her  very  good- 
looking  husband-to-be  by  whirling  about  at  him 
with, 

"T.  A.,  do  you  realize  that  you're  very  likely 
to  be  a  step-grandfather  some  fine  day  not  so 
far  away!" 

T.  A.  had  gazed  at  her  for  a  rather  shocked 
moment,  swallowed  hard,  smiled,  and  said, 

"Even  that  doesn't  scare  me,  Emma." 

Everything  had  been  planned  down  to  the 
last  detail.  Mrs.  McChesney's  little  apartment 
had  been  subleased,  and  a  very  smart  one  taken 

[94] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

and  furnished  almost  complete,  with  Annie  in 
stalled  in  the  kitchen  and  a  demure  parlor-maid 
engaged. 

"When  we  come  back,  we'll  come  home," 
T.  A.  Buck  had  said.  "Home !" 

There  had  been  much  to  do,  but  it  had  all 
been  done  smoothly  and  expertly,  under  the  di 
rection  of  these  two  who  had  learned  how  to 
plan,  direct,  and  carry  out. 

Then,  on  the  last  day,  Emma  McChesney, 
visibly  perturbed,  entered  her  partner's  office,  a 
letter  in  her  hand. 

"This  is  ghastly!"  she  exclaimed. 

Buck  pulled  out  a  chair  for  her. 

"Klein  cancel  his  order  again?" 

"No.  And  don't  ask  me  to  sit  down.  Be 
thankful  that  I  don't  blow  up." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Bad!  Here — read  that!  No,  don't  read 
it;  I'll  tell  you.  It'll  relieve  my  feelings.  You 
know  how  I've  been  angling  and  scheming  and 
contriving  and  plotting  for  years  to  get  an  ex 
clusive  order  from  Gage  &  Fosdick.  Of  course 
we've  had  a  nice  little  order  every  few  months, 
but  what's  that  from  the  biggest  mail-order 
house  in  the  world?  And  now,  out  of  a  blue 

[95] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

sky,  comes  this  bolt  from  O'Malley,  who  buys 
our  stuff,  saying  that  he's  coming  on  the  tenth 
— that's  next  week — that  he's  planned  to  estab 
lish  our  line  with  their  trade,  and  that  he  wants 
us  to  be  prepared  for  a  record-breaking  order. 
I've  fairly  prayed  for  this.  And  now — what 
shall  we  do  ?" 

"Do?" — smoothly — "just  write  the  gentle 
man  and  tell  him  you're  busy  getting  married 
this  week  and  next,  and  that,  by  a  singular  co 
incidence,  your  partner  is  similarly  engaged; 
that  our  manager  will  attend  to  him  with  all 
care  and  courtesy,  unless  he  can  postpone  his 
trip  until  our  return.  Suggest  that  he  call 
around  a  week  or  two  later." 

"T.  A.  Buck,  I  know  it  isn't  considered  good 
form  to  rage  and  glare  at  one's  fiance  on  the 
eve  of  one's  wedding-day.  If  this  were  a  week 
earlier  or  a  week  later,  I'd  be  tempted  to — 
shake  you!" 

Buck  stood  up,  came  over  to  her,  and  laid  a 
hand  very  gently  on  her  arm.  With  the  other 
hand  he  took  the  letter  from  her  fingers. 

"Emma,  you're  tired,  and  a  little  excited. 
You've  been  under  an  unusual  physical  and 
mental  strain  for  the  last  few  weeks.  Give  me 

[96] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

that  letter.  I'll  answer  it.  This  kind  of  thing" 
— he  held  up  the  letter — uhas  meant  everything 
to  you.  If  it  had  not,  where  would  I  be  to-day? 
But  to-night,  Emma,  it  doesn't  mean  a  thing. 
Not — one  thing." 

Slowly  Emma  McChesney's  tense  body  re 
laxed.  A  great  sigh  that  had  in  it  weariness 
and  relief  and  acquiescence  came  from  her. 
She  smiled  ever  so  faintly. 

"I've  been  a  ramrod  so  long  it's  going  to 
be  hard  to  learn  to  be  a  clinging  vine.  I've 
been  my  own  support  for  so  many  years,  I  don't 
use  a  trellis  very  gracefully — yet.  But  I  think 
I'll  get  the  hang  of  it  very  soon." 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  crossed  to  her 
own  office,  looked  all  about  at  the  orderly,  ship 
shape  room  that  reflected  her  personality — as 
did  any  room  she  occupied. 

"Just  the  same,"  she  called  out,  over  her 
shoulder,  to  Buck  in  the  doorway,  "I  hate  like 
fury  to  see  that  order  slide." 

In  hat  and  coat  and  furs  she  stood  a  moment, 
her  fingers  on  the  electric  switch,  her  eyes  very 
bright  and  wide.  The  memories  of  ten  years, 
fifteen  years,  twenty  years  crowded  up  around 
her  and  filled  the  little  room.  Some  of  them 

[97] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

were  golden  and  some  of  them  were  black; 
a  few  had  power  to  frighten  her,  even  now.  So 
she  turned  out  the  light,  stood  for  just  another 
moment  there  in  the  darkness,  then  stepped  out 
into  the  hall,  closed  the  door  softly  behind  her, 
and  stood  face  to  face  with  the  lettering  on 
the  glass  panel  of  the  door — the  lettering  that 
spelled  the  name,  "MRS.  McCHESNEY." 

T.  A.  Buck  watched  her  in  silence.  She 
reached  up  with  one  wavering  forefinger  and 
touched  each  of  the  twelve  letters,  one  after  the 
other.  Then  she  spread  her  hand  wide,  blot 
ting  out  the  second  word.  And  when  she 
turned  away,  one  saw — she  being  Emma  Me- 
Chesney,  and  a  woman,  and  very  tired  and 
rather  sentimental,  and  a  bit  hysterical  and  al 
together  happy — that,  though  she  was  smiling, 
her  eyes  were  wet. 

In  her  ten  years  on  the  road,  visiting  town 
after  town,  catching  trains,  jolting  about  in 
rumbling  hotel  'buses  or  musty-smelling  small 
town  hacks,  living  in  hotels,  good,  bad,  and  in 
different,  Emma  McChesney  had  come  upon 
hundreds  of  rice-strewn,  ribbon-bedecked  bridal 
couples.  She  had  leaned  from  her  window  at 

[98] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

many  a  railway  station  to  see  the  barbaric  and 
cruel  old  custom  of  bride-and-bridegroom  bait 
ing.  She  had  smiled  very  tenderly — and  rather 
sadly,  and  hopefully,  too — upon  the  boy  and 
girl  who  rushed  breathless  into  the  car  in  a 
flurry  of  white  streamers,  flowers,  old  shoes, 
laughter,  cheers,  last  messages.  Now,  as  in  a 
dream,  she  found  herself  actually  of  these.  Of 
rice,  old  shoes,  and  badinage  there  had  been 
none,  it  is  true.  She  stood  quietly  by  while 
Buck  attended  to  their  trunks,  just  as  she  had 
seen  it  done  by  hundreds  of  helpless  little  cot 
ton-wool  women  who  had  never  checked  a  trunk 
in  their  lives — she,  who  had  spent  ten  years 
of  her  life  wrestling  with  trunks  and  baggage 
men  and  porters.  Once  there  was  some  trifling 
mistake — Buck's  fault.  Emma,  with  her  ex 
perience  of  the  road,  saw  his  error.  She  could 
have  set  him  right  with  a  word.  It  was  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue.  By  sheer  force  of  will 
she  withheld  that  word,  fought  back  the  almost 
overwhelming  inclination  to  take  things  in  hand, 
set  them  right.  It  was  just  an  incident,  almost 
trifling  in  itself.  But  its  import  was  tremen 
dous,  for  her  conduct,  that  moment,  shaped  the 
happiness  of  their  future  life  together. 

[99] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Emma  had  said  that  there  would  be  no  rude 
awakenings  for  them,  no  startling  shocks. 

uThere  isn't  a  thing  we  don't  know  about 
each  other,"  she  had  said.  "We  each  know 
the  other's  weaknesses  and  strength.  I  hate  the 
way  you  gnaw  your  mustache  when  you're  trou 
bled,  and  I  think  the  fuss  you  make  when  the 
waiter  pours  your  coffee  without  first  having 
given  you  sugar  and  cream  is  the  most  absurd 
thing  I've  ever  seen.  But,  then,  I  know  how 
it  annoys  you  to  see  me  sitting  with  one  slipper 
dangling  from  my  toe,  when  I'm  particularly 
comfortable  and  snug.  You  know  how  I  like 
my  eggs,  and  you  think  it's  immoral.  I  sup 
pose  we're  really  set  in  our  ways.  It's  going 
to  be  interesting  to  watch  each  other  shift." 

"Just  the  same,"  Buck  said,  "I  didn't  dream 
there  was  any  woman  living  who  could  actually 
make  a  Pullman  drawing-room  look  homelike." 

"Any  woman  who  has  spent  a  fourth  of  her 
life  in  hotels  and  trains  learns  that  trick.  She 
has  to.  If  she  happens  to  be  the  sort  that  likes 
books  and  flowers  and  sewing,  she  carries  some 
of  each  with  her.  And  one  book,  one  rose,  and 
one  piece  of  unfinished  embroidery  would  make 
an  oasis  in  the  Sahara  Desert  look  homelike." 
[100] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

It  was  on  the  westbound  train  ihkt  they;  pi- 
countered  Sam — Sam  of  the  rolling  eye,  the 
genial  grin,  the  deft  hand.  Sam  was  known  to 
every  hardened  traveler  as  the  porter  de  luxe 
of  the  road.  Sam  was  a  diplomat,  a  financier, 
and  a  rascal.  He  never  forgot  a  face.  He 
never  forgave  a  meager  tip.  The  passengers 
who  traveled  with  him  were  at  once  his  guests 
and  his  victims. 

Therefore  his,  "Good  evenin',  Mis'  McChes- 
ney,  ma'am.  Good  evenM  Well,  it  suh't'nly 
has  been  a  long  time  sense  Ah  had  the  pleasuh 
of  yoh  presence  as  passengah,  ma'am.  Ah 
sure  am " 

The  slim,  elegant  figure  of  T.  A.  Buck  ap 
peared  in  the  doorway.  Sam's  rolling  eye  be 
came  a  thing  on  ball  bearings.  His  teeth 
flashed  startlingly  white  in  the  broadest  of 
grins.  He  took  Buck's  hat,  ran  a  finger  under 
its  inner  band,  and  shook  it  very  gently. 

"What's  the  idea?"  inquired  Buck  genially. 
"Are  you  a  combination  porter  and  prestidigi 
tator?" 

Sam  chuckled  his  infectious  negro  chuckle. 

"Well,  no,  sah !  Ah  wouldn'  go's  f ah  as  t' 
say  that,  sah.  But  Ah  hab  been  known  to  shake 
[101] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

rifc°e •' -out*  of  a;gen'Fman*s  ordinary,  everyday, 
black  derby  hat." 

"Get  out!"  laughed  T.  A.  Buck,  as  Sam 
ducked. 

"You  may  as  well  get  used  to  it,"  smiled 
Emma,  "because  I'm  known  to  every  train-con 
ductor,  porter,  hotel-clerk,  chamber-maid,  and 
bell-boy  between  here  and  the  Great  Lakes." 

It  was  Sam  who  proved  himself  hero  of  the 
honeymoon,  for  he  saved  T.  A.  Buck  from 
continuing  his  journey  to  Chicago  brideless. 
Fifteen  minutes  earlier,  Buck  had  gone  to  the 
buffet-car  for  a  smoke.  At  Cleveland,  Emma, 
looking  out  of  the  car  window,  saw  a  familiar 
figure  pacing  up  and  down  the  station  platform. 
It  was  that  dapper  and  important  little  Irish 
man,  O'Malley,  buyer  for  Gage  &  Fosdick,  the 
greatest  mail-order  house  in  the  world — O'Mal 
ley,  whose  letter  T.  A.  Buck  had  answered; 
O'Malley,  whose  order  meant  thousands.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  New  York,  of  course. 

In  that  moment  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  faded  into 
the  background  and  Emma  McChesney  rose  up 
in  her  place.  She  snatched  hat  and  coat  and 
furs,  put  them  on  as  she  went  down  the  long 
aisle,  swung  down  the  car  steps,  and  flew  down 
[102] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

the  platform  to  the  unconscious  O'Malley.  He 
was  smoking,  all  unconscious.  The  Fates  had 
delivered  him  into  her  expert  hands.  She  knew 
those  kindly  sisters  of  old,  and  she  was  the  last 
to  refuse  their  largesse. 

"Mr.  O'Malley!" 

He  wheeled. 

"Mrs.  McChesney!"  He  had  just  a  charm 
ing  trace  of  a  brogue.  His  enemies  said  he 
assumed  it.  "Well,  who  was  I  thinkin'  of  but 
you  a  minute  ago.  What " 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  Chicago.  Saw  you  from 
the  car  window.  You're  on  the  New  York 
train?  I  thought  so.  Tell  me,  you're  surely 
seeing  our  man,  aren't  you?" 

O'Malley's  smiling  face  clouded.  He  was 
a  temperamental  Irishman — Ted  O'Malley — 
with  ideas  on  the  deference  due  him  and  his 
great  house. 

"I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  McChesney.  I 
had  a  letter  from  your  Mr.  Buck.  It  wasn't 
much  of  a  letter  to  a  man  like  me,  representing 
a  house  like  Gage  &  Fosdick.  It  said  both 
heads  of  the  firm  would  be  out  of  town,  and 
would  I  see  the  manager.  Me — see  the  man 
ager!  Well,  thinks  I,  if  that's  how  important 

[103] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

they  think  my  order,  then  they'll  not  get  it — 
that's  all.    I've  never  yet " 

"Dear  Mr.  O'Malley,  please  don't  be  of 
fended.  As  a  McChesney  to  an  O'Malley,  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I've  just  been  married." 

"Married!     God  bless  me — to " 

"To  T.  A.  Buck,  of  course.  He's  on  that 
train.  He " 

She  turned  toward  the  train.  And  as  she 
turned  it  began  to  move,  ever  so  gently.  At 
the  same  moment  there  sped  toward  her,  with 
unbelievable  swiftness,  the  figure  of  Sam  the 
porter,  his  eyes  all  whites.  By  one  arm  he 
grasped  her,  and  half  carried,  half  jerked  her 
to  the  steps  of  the  moving  train,  swung  her  up 
to  the  steps  like  a  bundle  of  rags,  caught  the 
rail  by  a  miracle,  and  stood,  grinning  and  trium 
phant,  gazing  down  at  the  panting  O'Malley, 
who  was  running  alongside  the  train. 

"Back  in  a  week.  Will  you  wait  for  us  in 
New  York?"  called  Emma,  her  breath  coming 
fast.  She  was  trembling,  too,  and  laughing. 

"Will  I  wait !"  called  back  the  puffing  O'Mal 
ley,  every  bit  of  the  Irish  in  him  beaming  from 
his  eyes.     "I'll  be  there  when  you  get  back  as 
sure  as  your  name's  McBuck." 
[104] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a  round,  silver 
Western  dollar  and,  still  running,  tossed  it  to 
the  toothy  Sam.  That  peerless  porter  caught 
it,  twirled  it,  kissed  it,  bowed,  and  grinned 
afresh  as  the  train  glided  out  of  the  shed. 

Emma,  flushed,  smiling,  flew  up  the  aisle. 

Buck,  listening  to  her  laughing,  triumphant 
account  of  her  hairbreadth,  harum-scarum  ad 
venture,  frowned  before  he  smiled. 

"Emma,  how  could  you  do  it !  At  least,  why 
didn't  you  send  back  for  me  first?" 

Emma  smiled  a  little  tremulously. 

"Don't  be  angry.  You  see,  dear  boy,  I've 
only  been  your  wife  for  a  week.  But  I've  been 
Featherloom  petticoats  for  over  fifteen  years. 
It's  a  habit." 

Just  how  strong  and  fixed  a  habit,  she  proved 
to  herself  a  little  more  than  a  week  later.  It 
was  the  morning  of  their  first  breakfast  in  the 
new  apartment.  You  would  have  thought,  to 
see  them  over  their  coffee  and  eggs  and  rolls, 
that  they  had  been  breakfasting  together  thus 
for  years — Annie  was  so  at  home  in  her  new 
kitchen ;  the  deft  little  maid,  in  her  crisp  white, 
fitted  so  perfectly  into  the  picture.  Perhaps 
the  thing  that  T.  A.  Buck  said,  once  the  maid 

[105] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

left  them  alone,  might  have  given  an  outsider 
the  cue. 

"You  remind  me  of  a  sweetpea,  Emma.  One 
of  those  crisp,  erect,  golden-white,  fresh,  fra 
grant  sweetpeas.  I  think  it  is  the  slenderest, 
sweetest,  neatest,  trimmest  flower  in  the  world, 
so  delicately  set  on  its  stem,  and  yet  so  straight, 
so  independent." 

"T.  A.,  you  say  such  dear  things  to  me !" 

No;  they  had  not  been  breakfasting  together 
for  years. 

"I'm  glad  you're  not  one  of  those  women 
that  wears  a  frowsy,  lacy,  ribbony,  what-do-you- 
call-'em  —  boudoir-cap  —  down  to  breakfast. 
They  always  make  me  think  of  uncombed  hair. 
That's  just  one  reason  why  I'm  glad." 

"And  I'm  glad,"  said  Emma,  looking  at  his 
clear  eyes  and  steady  hand  and  firm  skin,  "for 
a  number  of  reasons.  One  of  them  is  that 
you're  not  the  sort  of  man  who's  a  grouch  at 
breakfast." 

When  he  had  hat  and  coat  and  stick  in  hand, 
and  had  kissed  her  good-by  and  reached  the 
door  and  opened  it,  he  came  back  again,  as  is 
the  way  of  bridegrooms.  But  at  last  the  door 
closed  behind  him. 

[106] 


A  CLOSER  CORPORATION 

Emma  sat  there  a  moment,  listening  to  his 
quick,  light  step  down  the  corridor,  to  the  open 
ing  of  the  lift  door,  to  its  metallic  closing.  She 
sat  there,  in  the  sunshiny  dining-room,  in  her 
fresh,  white  morning  gown.  She  picked  up 
her  newspaper,  opened  it;  scanned  it,  put  it 
down.  For  years,  now,  she  had  read  her  news 
paper  in  little  gulps  on  the  way  downtown  in 
crowded  subway  or  street-car.  She  could  not 
accustom  herself  to  this  leisurely  scanning  of 
the  pages.  She  rose,  went  to  the  window,  came 
back  to  the  table,  stood  there  a  moment,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  something  far  away. 

The  swinging  door  between  dining-room  and 
butler's  pantry  opened.  Annie,  in  her  neat 
blue-and-white  stripes,  stood  before  her. 

"Shall  it  be  steak  or  chops  to-night,  Mrs. 
Me— Buck  ?" 

Emma  turned  her  head  in  Annie's  direction 
— then  her  eyes.  The  two  actions  were  distinct 
and  separate. 

"Steak  or "  There  was  a  little  bewil 
dered  look  in  her  eyes.  Her  mind  had  not  yet 
focused  on  the  question.  "Steak — oh!  Oh, 
yes,  of  course !  Why — why,  Annie" — and  the 
splendid  thousand-h.-p.  mind  brought  itself 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

down  to  the  settling  of  this  butter-churning, 
two-h.-p.  question — "why,  Annie,  considering 
all  things,  I  think  we'll  make  it  filet  with  mush 


rooms." 


[108] 


IV 

BLUE   SERGE 

FOR  ten  years,  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney's 
home  had  been  a  wardrode-trunk.  She 
had  taken  her  family  life  at  second  hand.  Four 
nights  out  of  the  seven,  her  bed  was  "Lower 
Eight,"  and  her  breakfast,  as  many  mornings, 
a  cinder-strewn,  lukewarm  horror,  taken  tete-a- 
tete  with  a  sleepy-eyed  stranger  and  presided 
over  by  a  white-coated,  black-faced  bandit,  to 
whom  a  coffee-slopped  saucer  was  a  matter  of 
course. 

It  had  been  her  habit  during  those  ten  years 
on  the  road  as  traveling  saleswoman  for  the 
T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company,  to 
avoid  the  discomfort  of  the  rapidly  chilling  car 
by  slipping  early  into  her  berth.  There,  in 
kimono,  if  not  in  comfort,  she  would  shut  down 
the  electric  light  with  a  snap,  raise  the  shade, 
and,  propped  up  on  one  elbow,  watch  the  little 
towns  go  by.  They  had  a  wonderful  fascina- 
[109] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

tion  for  her,  those  Middle  Western  towns, 
whose  very  names  had  a  comfortable,  home 
like  sound — Sandusky,  Galesburg,  Crawfords- 
ville,  Appleton — very  real  towns,  with  very 
real  people  in  them.  Peering  wistfully  out 
through  the  dusk,  she  could  get  little  intimate 
glimpses  of  the  home  life  of  these  people  as 
the  night  came  on.  In  those  modest  frame 
houses  near  the  station  they  need  not  trouble 
to  pull  down  the  shades  as  must  their  cautious 
city  cousins.  As  the  train  slowed  down,  there 
could  be  had  a  glimpse  of  a  matronly  house 
wife  moving  deftly  about  in  the  kitchen's  warm- 
yellow  glow,  a  man  reading  a  paper  in  slip 
pered,  shirt-sleeved  comfort,  a  pig-tailed  girl 
at  the  piano,  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her  arms, 
or  a  family  group,  perhaps,  seated  about  the 
table,  deep  in  an  after-supper  conclave.  It  had 
made  her  homeless  as  she  was  homesick. 

Emma  always  liked  that  picture  best.  Her 
keen,  imaginative  mind  could  sense  the  scene, 
could  actually  follow  the  trend  of  the  talk  dur 
ing  this,  the  most  genial,  homely,  soul-cheering 
hour  of  the  day.  The  trifling  events  of  the  last 
twelve  hours  in  schoolroom,  in  store,  in  office, 
in  street,  in  kitchen  loom  up  large  as  they  are 
[no] 


BLUE  SERGE 

rehearsed  in  that  magic,  animated,  cozy  mo 
ment  just  before  ma  says,  with  a  sigh : 

"Well,  folks,  go  on  into  the  sitting-room. 
Me  and  Nellie've  got  to  clear  away."  • 

Just  silhouettes  as  the  train  flashed  by — these 
small-town  people — but  very  human,  very  en 
viable  to  Emma  McChesney. 

"They're  real,"  she  would  say.  "They're 
regular,  three-meals-a-day  people.  I've  been 
peeking  in  at  their  windows  for  ten  years,  and 
I've  learned  that  it  is  in  these  towns  that  folks 
really  live.  The  difference  between  life  here 
and  life  in  New  York  is  the  difference  between 
area  and  depth.  D'you  see  what  I  mean?  In 
New  York,  they  live  by  the  mile,  and  here  they 
live  by  the  cubic  foot.  Well,  I'd  rather  have 
one  juicy,  thick  club-steak  than  a  whole  platter- 
ful  of  quarter-inch.  It's  the  same  idea." 

To  those  of  her  business  colleagues  whose 
habit  it  was  to  lounge  in  the  hotel  window  with 
sneering  comment  upon  the  small-town  proces 
sion  as  it  went  by,  Emma  McChesney  had  been 
wont  to  say: 

"Don't  sneer  at  Main  Street.  When  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  isn't  it  true  that  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  any  bright  winter  afternoon  between  four 

[mi 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

and  six,  is  only  Main  Street  on  a  busy  day  mul 
tiplied  by  one  thousand?" 

Emma  McChesney  was  not  the  sort  of 
woman  to  rail  at  a  fate  that  had  placed  her  in 
the  harness  instead  of  in  the  carriage.  But 
during  all  the  long  years  of  up-hill  pull,  from 
the  time  she  started  with  a  humble  salary  in  the 
office  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat 
Company,  through  the  years  spent  on  the  road, 
up  to  the  very  time  when  the  crown  of  success 
came  to  her  in  the  form  of  the  secretaryship 
of  the  prosperous  firm  of  T.  A.  Buck,  there  was 
a  minor  but  fixed  ambition  in  her  heart.  That 
same  ambition  is  to  be  found  deep  down  in  the 
heart  of  every  woman  whose  morning  costume 
is  a  tailor  suit,  whose  newspaper  must  be  read 
in  hurried  snatches  on  the  way  downtown  in 
crowded  train  or  car,  and  to  whom  nine  A.M. 
spells  "Business." 

"In  fifteen  years,"  Emma  McChesney  used 
to  say,  "I've  never  known  what  it  is  to  loll  in 
leisure.  IVe  never  had  a  chance  to  luxuriate. 
Sunday?  To  a  working  woman,  Sunday  is  for 
the  purpose  of  repairing  the  ravages  of  the 
other  six  days.  By  the  time  you've  washed  your 
brushes,  mended  your  skirt-braid,  darned  your 

[112] 


BLUE  SERGE 

stockings  and  gloves,  looked  for  gray  hairs  and 
crows'-feet,  and  skimmed  the  magazine  section, 
it's  Monday." 

It  was  small  wonder  that  Emma  McChes- 
ney's  leisure  had  been  limited.  In  those  busy 
years  she  had  not  only  earned  the  living  for 
herself  and  her  boy;  she  had  trained  that  boy 
into  manhood  and  placed  his  foot  on  the  first 
rung  of  business  success.  She  had  transformed 
the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Com 
pany  from  a  placidly  mediocre  concern  to  a 
thriving,  flourishing,  nationally  known  institu 
tion.  All  this  might  have  turned  another 
woman's  head.  It  only  served  to  set  Emma 
McChesney's  more  splendidly  on  her  shoulders. 
Not  too  splendidly,  however;  for,  with  her 
marriage  to  her  handsome  business  partner,  T. 
A.  Buck,  that  well-set,  independent  head  was 
found  to  fit  very  cozily  into  the  comfortable 
hollow  formed  by  T.  A.  Buck's  right  arm. 

"Emma,"  Buck  had  said,  just  before  their 
marriage,  "what  is  the  arrangement  to  be  after 
—after " 

"Just  what  it  is  now,  I  suppose,"  Emma  had 
replied,  "except  that  we'll  come  down  to  the 
office  together." 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

He  had  regarded  her  thoughtfully  for  a  long 
minute.  Then,  "Emma,  for  three  months  af 
ter  our  marriage  will  you  try  being  just  Mrs. 
T.  A.  Buck?" 

"You  mean  no  factory,  no  Featherlooms,  no 
dictation,  no  business  bothers  1"  Her  voice  was 
a  rising  scale  of  surprise. 

ujust  try  it  for  three  months,  with  the  privi 
lege  of  a  lifetime,  if  you  like  it.  But  try  it. 
I — I'd  like  to  see  you  there  when  I  leave, 
Emma.  I'd  like  to  have  you  there  when  I  come 
home.  I  suppose  I  sound  like  a  selfish  Turk, 
but " 

"You  sound  like  a  regular  husband,"  Emma 
McChesney  had  interrupted,  "and  I  love  you 
for  it.  Now  listen,  T.  A.  For  three  whole 
months  I'm  going  to  be  what  the  yellow  novels 
used  to  call  a  doll-wife.  I'm  going  to  meet  you 
at  the  door  every  night  with  a  rose  in  my  hair. 
I  shall  wear  pink  things  with  lace  ruffles  on  'em. 
Don't  you  know  that  I've  been  longing  to  do 
just  those  things  for  years  and  years?  I'm  go 
ing  to  blossom  out  into  a  beauty.  Watch  me ! 
I've  never  had  time  to  study  myself.  I'll  hold 
shades  of  yellow  and  green  and  flesh-color 
up  to  my  face  to  see  which  brings  out  the  right 


BLUE  SERGE 

tints.  I'm  going  to  gaze  at  myself  through  half- 
closed  eyes  to  see  which  shade  produces  tawny 
lights  in  my  hair.  Ever  since  I  can  remember, 
I've  been  so  busy  that  it  has  been  a  question  of 
getting  the  best  possible  garments  in  the  least 
possible  time  for  the  smallest  possible  sum. 
In  that  case,  one  gets  blue  serge.  I've  worn 
blue  serge  until  it  feels  like  a  convict's  uniform. 
I'm  going  to  blossom  out  into  fawn  and  green 
and  mauve.  I  shall  get  evening  dresses  with 
only  bead  shoulder-straps.  I'm  going  to  shop. 
I've  never  really  seen  Fifth  Avenue  between 
eleven  and  one,  when  the  real  people  come  out. 
My  views  of  it  have  been  at  nine  A.M.  when  the 
office-workers  are  going  to  work,  and  at  five- 
thirty  when  they  are  going  home.  I  will  now 
cease  to  observe  the  proletariat  and  mingle  with 
the  predatory.  I'll  probably  go  in  for  those 
tiffin  things  at  the  Plaza.  If  I  do,  I'll  never 
be  the  same  woman  again." 

Whereupon  she  paused  with  dramatic  effect. 
To  all  of  which  T.  A.  Buck  had  replied: 
"Go  as  far  as  you  like.     Take  fencing  les 
sons,  if  you  want  to,  or  Sanskrit.    You've  been 
a  queen  bee  for  so  many  years  that  I  think  the 
role  of  drone  will  be  a  pleasant  change.     Let 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

me  shoulder  the  business  worries  for  a  while. 
You've  borne  them  long  enough." 

ult's  a  bargain.  For  three  months  I  shall  do 
nothing  more  militant  than  to  pick  imaginary 
threads  off  your  coat  lapel  and  pout  when  you 
mention  business.  At  the  end  of  those  three 
months  we'll  go  into  private  session,  compare 
notes,  and  determine  whether  the  plan  shall 
cease  or  become  permanent.  Shake  hands  on 
it." 

They  shook  hands  solemnly.  As  they  did 
so,  a  faint  shadow  of  doubt  hovered  far,  far 
back  in  the  depths  of  T.  A.  Buck's  fine  eyes. 
And  a  faint,  inscrutable  smile  lurked  in  the  cor 
ners  of  Emma's  lips. 

So  it  was  that  Emma  McChesney,  the  alert, 
the  capable,  the  brisk,  the  business-like,  as 
sumed  the  role  of  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck,  the  leis 
urely,  the  languid,  the  elegant.  She,  who  for 
merly,  at  eleven  in  the  morning,  might  have 
been  seen  bent  on  selling  the  best  possible  bill 
of  spring  Featherlooms  to  Joe  Greenbaum,  of 
Keokuk,  Iowa,  could  now  be  found  in  a  mo 
diste's  gray-and-raspberry  salon,  being  draped 
and  pinned  and  fitted.  She,  whose  dynamic 
force  once  charged  the  entire  office  and  factory 
[116] 


BLUE  SERGE 

with  energy  and  efficiency,  now  distributed  a 
tithe  of  that  priceless  vigor  here,  a  tithe  there, 
a  tithe  everywhere,  and  thus  broke  the  very 
backbone  of  its  power. 

She  had  never  been  a  woman  to  do  things 
by  halves.  What  she  undertook  to  do  she  did 
thoroughly  and  whole-heartedly.  This  princi 
ple  she  applied  to  her  new  mode  of  life  as 
rigidly  as  she  had  to  the  old. 

That  first  month  slipped  magically  by. 
Emma  was  too  much  a  woman  not  to  feel  a 
certain  exquisite  pleasure  in  the  selecting  of 
delicate  and  becoming  fabrics.  There  was  a 
thrill  of  novelty  in  being  able  to  spend  an  hour 
curled  up  with  a  book  after  lunch,  to  listen  to 
music  one  afternoon  a  week,  to  drive  through 
the  mistily  gray  park;  to  walk  up  the  thronged, 
sparkling  Avenue,  pausing  before  its  Aladdin's 
Cave  windows.  Simple  enough  pleasures,  and 
taken  quite  as  a  matter  of  course  by  thousands 
of  other  women  who  had  no  work-filled  life  be 
hind  them  to  use  as  contrast. 

She  plunged  into  her  new  life  whole-heart 
edly.  The  first  new  gown  was  exciting.  It  was 
a  velvet  affair  with  furs,  and  gratifyingly  be 
coming.  Her  shining  blond  head  rose  above  the 

[117] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

soft  background  of  velvet  and  fur  with  an  ef 
fect  to  distract  the  least  observing. 

"Like  it?"  she  had  asked  Buck,  turning 
slowly,  frankly  sure  of  herself. 

"You're  wonderful  in  it,"  said  T.  A.  Buck. 
"Say,  Emma,  where's  that  blue  thing  you  used 
to  wear — the  one  with  the  white  cuffs  and  col 
lar,  and  the  little  blue  hat  with  the  what-cha- 
ma-call-ems  on  it?" 

UT.  A.  Buck,  you're — you're — well,  you're 
a  man,  that's  what  you  are !  That  blue  thing 
was  worn  threadbare  in  the  office,  and  I  gave 
it  to  the  laundress's  niece  weeks  ago."  Small 
wonder  her  cheeks  took  on  a  deeper  pink. 

"Oh,"  said  Buck,  unruffled,  "too  bad !  There 
was  something  about  that  dress — I  don't 
know " 

At  the  first  sitting  of  the  second  gown, 
Emma  revolted  openly. 

On  the  floor  at  Emma's  feet  there  was  knot 
ted  into  a  contortionistic  attitude  a  small,  wiry, 
impolite  person  named  Smalley.  Miss  Smalley 
was  an  artist  in  draping  and  knew  it.  She  was 
the  least  fashionable  person  in  all  that  smart 
dressmaking  establishment.  She  refused  to  no 
tice  the  corset-coiffure-and-charmeuse  edict  that 
[118] 


BLUE  SERGE 

governed  all  other  employees  in  the  shop.  In 
her  shabby  little  dress,  her  steel-rimmed  spec 
tacles,  her  black-sateen  apron,  Smalley  might 
have  passed  for  a  Bird  Center  home  dress 
maker.  Yet,  given  a  yard  or  two  or  three  of 
satin  and  a  saucer  of  pins,  Smalley  could  make 
the  dumpiest  of  debutantes  look  like  a  fragile 
flower. 

At  a  critical  moment  Emma  stirred.  Handi 
capped  as  she  was  by  a  mouthful  of  nineteen 
pins  and  her  bow-knot  attitude,  Smalley  still 
could  voice  a  protest. 

"Don't  move!"  she  commanded,  thickly. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Emma  said,  and  moved 
again,  more  disastrously  than  before.  "Don't 
you  think  it's  too — too  young?" 

She  eyed  herself  in  the  mirror  anxiously,  then 
looked  down  at  Miss  Smalley's  nut-cracker  face 
that  was  peering  up  at  her,  its  lips  pursed  gro 
tesquely  over  the  pins. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  mumbled  Miss  Smalley. 
"Everybody's  clothes  are  too  young  for  'em 
nowadays.  The  only  difference  between  the 
dresses  we  make  for  girls  of  sixteen  and  the 
dresses  we  make  for  their  grandmothers  of 
sixty  is  that  the  sixty-year-old  ones  want  'em 

[119] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

shorter  and  lower,  and  they  run  more  to  rose 
bud  trimming." 

Emma  surveyed  the  acid  Miss  Smalley  with 
a  look  that  was  half  amused,  half  vexed,  wholly 
determined. 

"I  shan't  wear  it.  Heaven  knows  I'm  not 
sixty,  but  I'm  not  sixteen  either !  I  don't  want 
to  be." 

Miss  Smalley,  doubling  again  to  her  task, 
flung  upward  a  grudging  compliment. 

"Well,  anyway,  you've  got  the  hair  and  the 
coloring  and  the  figure  for  it.  Goodness  knows 
you  look  young  enough!" 

"That's  because  I've  worked  hard  all  my 
life,"  retorted  Emma,  almost  viciously.  "An 
other  month  of  this  leisure  and  I'll  be  as  wrin 
kled  as  the  rest  of  them." 

Smalley' s  magic  fingers  paused  in  their  ma 
nipulation  of  a  soft  fold  of  satin. 

"Worked?  Earned  a  living?  Used  your 
wits  and  brains  every  day  against  the  wits  and 
brains  of  other  folks?" 

"Every  day." 

Into  the  eyes  of  Miss  Smalley,  the  artist  in 
draping,  there  crept  the  shrewd  twinkle  of  Miss 
Smalley,  the  successful  woman  in  business.  She 
[120] 


BLUE  SERGE 

had  been  sitting  back  on  her  knees,  surveying 
her  handiwork  through  narrowed  lids.  Now 
she  turned  her  gaze  on  Emma,  who  was  smil 
ing  down  at  her. 

"Then  for  goodness'  sake  don't  stop !  I've 
found  out  that  work  is  a  kind  of  self-oiler.  If 
you're  used  to  it,  the  minute  you  stop  you  begin 
to  get  rusty,  and  your  hinges  creak  and  you 
clog  up.  And  the  next  thing  you  know,  you 
break  down.  Work  that  you  like  to  do  is  a 
blessing.  It  keeps  you  young.  When  my 
mother  was  my  age,  she  was  crippled  with  rheu 
matism,  and  all  gnarled  up,  and  quavery,  and 
all  she  had  to  look  forward  to  was  death.  Now 
me — every  time  the  styles  in  skirts  change  I 
get  a  new  hold  on  life.  And  on  a  day  when  I 
can  make  a  short,  fat  woman  look  like  a  tall, 
thin  woman,  just  by  sitting  here  on  my  knees 
with  a  handful  of  pins,  and  giving  her  the  line 
she  needs,  I  go  home  feeling  like  I'd  just  been 
born." 

"I  know  that  feeling,"  said  Emma,  in  her 
eyes  a  sparkle  that  had  long  been  absent.  "I've 
had  it  when  I've  landed  a  thousand-dollar 
Featherloom  order  from  a  man  who  has  as 
sured  me  that  he  isn't  interested  in  our  line." 

[121] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

At  dinner  that  evening,  Emma's  gown  was 
so  obviously  not  of  the  new  crop  that  even  her 
husband's  inexpert  eye  noted  it. 

"That's  not  one  of  the  new  ones,  is  it?" 

"This !    And  you  a  manufacturer  of  skirts  1" 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  supply  of  new 
dresses?  Isn't  there  enough  to  go  round?" 

"Enough !  I've  never  had  so  many  new 
gowns  in  my  life.  The  trouble  is  that  I  shan't 
feel  at  home  in  them  until  I've  had  'em  all  dry- 
cleaned  at  least  once." 

During  the  second  month,  there  came  a  sud 
den,  sharp  change  in  skirt  modes.  For  four 
years  women  had  been  mincing  along  in  gar 
ments  so  absurdly  narrow  that  each  step  was  a 
thing  to  be  considered,  each  curbing  or  car-step 
demanding  careful  negotiation.  Now,  Fashion, 
in  her  freakiest  mood,  commanded  a  bewilder 
ing  width  of  skirt  that  was  just  one  remove 
from  the  flaring  hoops  of  Civil  War  days. 
Emma  knew  what  that  meant  for  the  Feather- 
loom  workrooms  and  selling  staff.  New  de 
signs,  new  models,  a  shift  in  prices,  a  boom  for 
petticoats,  for  four  years  a  garment  despised. 

A   hundred   questions   were   on   the   tip  of 
Emma's  tongue;  a  hundred  suggestions  flashed 
[122] 


BLUE  SERGE 

into  her  keen  mind;  there  occurred  to  her  a 
wonderful  design  for  a  new  model  which  should 
be  full  and  flaring  without  being  bulky  and  un 
comfortable  as  were  the  wide  petticoats  of  the 
old  days. 

But  a  bargain  was  a  bargain.  Still,  Emma 
Buck  was  as  human  as  Emma  McChesney  had 
been.  She  could  not  resist  a  timid, 

"T.  A.,  are  you — that  is — I  was  just  won 
dering — you're  making  'em  wide,  I  suppose, 
for  the  spring  trade." 

A  queer  look  flashed  into  T.  A.  Buck's  eyes 
— a  relieved  look  that  was  as  quickly  replaced 
by  an  expression  both  baffled  and  anxious. 

"Why — a — mmmm — yes — oh,  yes,  we're 
making  'em  up  wide,  but " 

"But  what?"    Emma  leaned  forward,  tense. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing." 

During  the  second  month  there  came  calling 
on  Emma,  those  solid  and  heavy  New  York 
ers,  with  whom  the  Buck  family  had  been  on 
friendly  terms  for  many  years.  They  came  at 
the  correct  hour,  in  their  correct  motor  or  con 
servative  broughams,  wearing  their  quietly  cor 
rect  clothes,  and  Emma  gave  them  tea,  and 
they  talked  on  every  subject  from  suffrage  to 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

salad  dressings,  and  from  war  to  weather,  but 
never  once  was  mention  made  of  business.  And 
Emma  McChesney's  life  had  been  interwoven 
with  business  for  more  than  fifteen  years. 

There  were  dinners — long,  heavy,  correct 
dinners.  Emma,  very  well  dressed,  bright-eyed, 
alert,  intelligent,  vital,  became  very  popular 
at  these  affairs,  and  her  husband  very  proud  of 
her  popularity.  And  if  any  one  as  thoroughly 
alive  as  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  could  have  been  bored 
to  extinction  by  anything,  then  those  dinners 
would  have  accomplished  the  deadly  work. 

"T.  A.,"  she  said  one  evening,  after  a  par 
ticularly  large  affair  of  this  sort,  "T.  A.,  have 
you  ever  noticed  anything  about  me  that  is  dif 
ferent  from  other  women?" 

"Have  I?    Well,  I  should  say  I " 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  what  you  mean,  dear — 
thanks  just  the  same.  I  mean  those  women  to 
night.  They  all  seem  to  'go  in'  for  something 
— votes  or  charity  or  dancing  or  social  service, 
or  something — even  the  girls.  And  they  all 
sounded  so  amateurish,  so  untrained,  so  unpre 
pared,  yet  they  seemed  to  be  dreadfully  in  ear 
nest."  ' 

"This  is  the  difference,"  said  T.  A.  Buck. 
[124] 


BLUE  SERGE 

"You've  rubbed  up  against  life,  and  you  know. 
They've  always  been  sheltered,  but  now  they 
want  to  know.  Well,  naturally  they're  going 
to  bungle  and  bump  their  heads  a  good  many 
times  before  they  really  find  out." 

"Anyway,"  retorted  Emma,  "they  want  to 
know.  That's  something.  It's  better  to  have 
bumped  your  head,  even  though  you  never  see 
what's  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  than  never 
to  have  tried  to  climb  it." 

It  was  in  the  third  week  of  the  third  month 
that  Emma  encountered  Hortense.  Hortense, 
before  her  marriage  to  Henry,  the  shipping- 
clerk,  had  been  a  very  pretty,  very  pert,  very 
devoted  little  stenographer  in  the  office  of  the 
T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company. 
She  had  married  just  a  month  after  her  em 
ployers,  and  Emma,  from  the  fulness  of  her 
own  brimming  cup  of  happiness,  had  made  Hor 
tense  happy  with  a  gift  of  linens  and  lingerie 
and  lace  of  a  fineness  that  Hortense's  beauty- 
loving,  feminine  heart  could  never  have  hoped 
for. 

They  met  in  the  busy  aisle  of  a  downtown 
department  store  and  shook  hands  as  do  those 
who  have  a  common  bond. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Hortense,  as  pretty  as  ever  and  as  pert, 
spoke  first. 

"I  wouldn't  have  known  you,  Mrs.  Me — - 
Buck!" 

"No?    Why  not?" 

"You  look — no  one  would  think  you'd  ever 
worked  in  your  life.  I  was  down  at  the  office 
the  other  day  for  a  minute — the  first  time  since 
I  was  married.  They  told  me  you  weren't 
there  any  more." 

"No ;  I  haven't  been  down  since  my  marriage 
either.  I'm  like  you — an  elegant  lady  of  leis- 


ure." 


Hortense's  bright-blue  eyes  dwelt  search- 
ingly  on  the  face  of  her  former  employer. 

"The  bunch  in  the  office  said  they  missed  you 
something  awful."  Then,  in  haste:  "Oh,  I 
don't  mean  that  Mr.  Buck  don't  make  things  go 
all  right.  They're  awful  fond  of  him.  But — 
I  don't  know — Miss  Kelly  said  she  never  has 
got  over  waiting  for  the  sound  of  your  step 
down  the  hall  at  nine — sort  of  light  and  quick 
and  sharp  and  busy,  as  if  you  couldn't  wait  till 
you  waded  into  the  day's  work.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Emma. 


"  'No;  I'm  like  you — an  elegant  lady  of  leisure'  " — Page  126 


BLUE  SERGE 

There  was  a  little  pause.  The  two  women 
so  far  apart,  yet  so  near;  so  different,  yet  so 
like,  gazed  far  down  into  each  other's  soul. 

uMiss  it,  don't  you?"  said  Hortense. 

"Yes;  don't  you?" 

"Do  I!  Say "  She  turned  and  indi 
cated  the  women  surging  up  and  down  the  store 
aisles,  and  her  glance  and  gesture  were  replete 
with  contempt.  "Say;  look  at  'em!  Wander 
ing  around  here,  aimless  as  a  lot  of  chickens 
in  a  barnyard.  Half  of  'em  are  here  because 
they  haven't  got  anything  else  to  do.  Think 
of  it!  I've  watched  'em  lots  of  times.  They 
go  pawing  over  silks  and  laces  and  trimmings 
just  for  the  pleasure  of  feeling  'em.  They 
stand  in  front  of  a  glass  case  with  a  figure  in 
it  all  dressed  up  in  satin  and  furs  and  jewels, 
and  you'd  think  they  were  worshiping  an  idol 
like  they  used  to  in  the  olden  days.  They  don't 
seem  to  have  anything  to  do.  Nothing  to  oc 
cupy  their — their  heads.  Say,  if  I  thought  I 
was  going  to  be  like  them  in  time,  I " 

"Hortense,  my  dear  child,  you're — you're 
happy,  aren't  you?  Henry " 

"Well,  I  should  say  we  are!  I'm  crazy 
about  Henry,  and  he  thinks  I'm  perfect.  Hon- 
[127] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

estly,  ain't  they  a  scream!  They  think  they're 
so  big  and  manly  and  all,  and  they're  just  like 
kids;  ain't  it  so?  We're  living  in  a  four-room 
apartment  in  Harlem.  We've  got  it  fixed  up 
too  cozy  for  anything." 

"I'd  like  to  come  and  see  you,"  said  Emma. 

Hortense  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"Honestly;  if  you  would " 

"Let's  go  up  now.    I've  the  car  outside." 

"Now!    Why  I— I'd  love  it!" 

They  chattered  like  schoolgirls  on  the  way 
uptown — these  two  who  had  found  so  much 
in  common.  The  little  apartment  reached, 
Hortense  threw  open  the  door  with  the  confi 
dent  gesture  of  the  housekeeper  who  is  not 
afraid  to  have  her  household  taken  by  surprise 
— whose  housekeeping  is  an  index  of  character. 

Hortense  had  been  a  clean-cut  little  stenog 
rapher.  Her  correspondence  had  always  been 
free  from  erasures,  thumb-marks,  errors.  Her 
four-room  flat  was  as  spotless  as  her  typewrit 
ten  letters  had  been.  The  kitchen  shone  in  its 
blue  and  white  and  nickel.  A  canary  chirped 
in  the  tiny  dining-room.  There  were  books 
and  magazines  on  the  sitting-room  table.  The 
bedroom  was  brave  in  its  snowy  spread  and 

[128] 


BLUE  SERGE 

the  toilet  silver  that  had  been  Henry's  gift  to 
her  the  Christmas  they  became  engaged. 

Emma  examined  everything,  exclaimed  over 
everything,  admired  everything.  Hortense 
glowed  like  a  rose. 

"Do  you  really  like  it?  I  like  the  green  ve 
lours  in  the  sitting-room,  don't  you?  It's 
always  so  kind  and  cheerful.  We're  not  all 
settled  yet.  I  don't  suppose  we  ever  will  be. 
Sundays,  Henry  putters  around,  putting  up 
shelves,  and  fooling  around  with  a  can  of  paint. 
I  always  tell  him  he  ought  to  have  lived  on  a 
farm,  where  he'd  have  elbow-room." 

"No  wonder  you're  so  happy  and  busy," 
Emma  exclaimed,  and  patted  the  girl's  fresh, 
young  cheek. 

Hortense  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I'm  happy,"  she  said,  at  last,  "but  I  ain't 
busy.  And — well,  if  you're  not  busy,  you  can't 
be  happy  very  long,  can  you?" 

"No,"  said  Emma,  "idleness,  when  you're 
not  used  to  it,  is  misery." 

"There!  You've  said  it!  It's  like  running 
on  half-time  when  you're  used  to  a  day-and- 
night  shift.  Something's  lacking.  It  isn't  that 
Henry  isn't  grand  to  me,  because  he  is.  Even- 
[129] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

ings,  we're  so  happy  that  we  just  sit  and  grin 
at  each  other  and  half  the  time  we  forget  to 
go  to  a  'movie.'  After  Henry  leaves  in  the 
morning,  I  get  to  work.  I  suppose,  in  the  old 
days,  when  women  used  to  have  to  chop  the 
kindling,  and  catch  the  water  for  washing  in  a 
rain-barrel,  and  keep  up  a  fire  in  the  kitchen 
stove  and  do  their  own  bread  baking  and  all, 
it  used  to  keep  'em  hustling.  But,  my  good 
ness  !  A  four-room  flat  for  two  isn't  any  work. 
By  eleven,  I'm  through.  I've  straightened 
everything,  from  the  bed  to  the  refrigerator; 
the  marketing's  done,  and  the  dinner  vegetables 
are  sitting  around  in  cold  water.  The  mend 
ing  for  two  is  a  joke.  Henry  says  it's  a  wonder 
I  don't  sew  double-breasted  buttons  on  his  un 
dershirts." 

Emma  was  not  smiling.  But,  then,  neither 
was  Hortense.  She  was  talking  lightly,  seem 
ingly,  but  her  pretty  face  was  quite  serious. 

"The  big  noise  in  my  day  is  when  Henry 
comes  home  at  six.  That  was  all  right  and  nat 
ural,  I  suppose,  in  those  times  when  a  quilting- 
bee  was  a  wild  afternoon's  work,  and  teaching 
school  was  the  most  advanced  job  a  woman 
could  hold  down." 


BLUE  SERGE 

Emma  was  gazing  fascinated  at  the  girl's 
sparkling  face.  Her  own  eyes  were  very  bright, 
and  her  lips  were  parted. 

uTell  me,  Hortense,"  she  said  now;  "what 
does  Henry  say  to  all  this?  Have  you  told 
him  how  you  feel?" 

"Well,  I — I  talked  to  him  about  it  once  or 
twice.  I  told  him  that  IVe  got  about  twenty- 
four  solid  hours  a  week  that  I  might  be  getting 
fifty  cents  an  hour  for.  You  know,  I  worked 
for  a  manuscript-typewriting  concern  before  I 
came  over  to  Buck's — plays  and  stories  and 
that  kind  of  thing.  They  used  to  like  my  work 
because  I  never  queered  their  speeches  by  leav 
ing  out  punctuation  or  mixing  up  the  characters. 
The  manager  there  said  I  could  have  work  any 
time  I  wanted  it.  I've  got  my  own  typewriter. 
I  got  it  second  hand  when  I  first  started  in. 
Henry  picks  around  on  it  sometimes,  evenings. 
I  hardly  ever  touch  it.  It's  getting  rusty — and 
so  am  I." 

"It  isn't  just  the  money  you  want,  Hortense? 
Are  you  sure?" 

"Of  course  I'd  like  the  money.  That  extra 
coming  in  would  mean  books — I'm  crazy  about 
reading,  and  so  is  Henry — and  theaters  and 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

lots  of  things  we  can't  afford  now.  But  that 
isn't  all.  Henry  don't  want  to  be  a  shipping- 
clerk  all  his  life.  He's  crazy  about  mechanics 
and  that  kind  of  stuff.  But  the  books  that  he 
needs  cost  a  lot.  Don't  you  suppose  I'd  be 
proud  to  feel  that  the  extra  money  I'd  earned 
would  lift  him  up  where  he  could  have  a  chance 
to  be  something!  But  Henry  is  dead  set 
against  it.  He  says  he  is  the  one  that's  going 
to  earn  the  money  around  here.  I  try  to  tell 
him  that  I'm  used  to  using  my  mind.  He 
laughs  and  pinches  my  cheek  and  tells  me  to 
use  it  thinking  about  him."  She  stopped  sud 
denly  and  regarded  Emma  with  conscience- 
stricken  eyes.  "You  don't  think  I'm  running 
down  Henry,  do  you?  My  goodness,  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  that  I'd  change  back  again 
for  a  million  dollars,  because  I  wouldn't." 

She  looked  up  at  Emma,  conscience-stricken. 

Emma  came  swiftly  over  and  put  one  hand 
on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"I  don't  think  it.  Not  for  a  minute.  I  know 
that  the  world  is  full  of  Henrys,  and  that  the 
number  of  Hortenses  is  growing  larger  and 
larger.  I  don't  know  if  the  four-room  flats  are 
to  blame,  or  whether  it's  just  a  natural  develop- 

[1.3.*] 


BLUE  SERGE 

ment.  But  the  Henry-Hortense  situation  seems 
to  be  spreading  to  the  nine-room-and-three- 
baths  apartments,  too." 

Hortense  nodded  a  knowing  head. 

"I  kind  of  thought  so,  from  the  way  you 
were  listening." 

The  two,  standing  there  gazing  at  each  other 
almost  shyly,  suddenly  began  to  laugh.  The 
laugh  was  a  safety-valve.  Then,  quite  as  sud 
denly,  both  became  serious.  That  seriousness 
had  been  the  under-current  throughout. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Emma  very  gently,  "if  a 
small  Henry,  some  day,  won't  provide  you  with 
an  outlet  for  all  that  stored-up  energy." 

Hortense  looked  up  very  bravely. 

"Maybe.  You — you  must  have  been  about 
my  age  when  your  boy  was  born.  Did  he  make 
you  feel — different?" 

The  shade  of  sadness  that  always  came  at 
the  mention  of  those  unhappy  years  of  her  early 
marriage  crept  into  Emma's  face  now. 

"That  was  not  the  same,  dear,"  she  ex 
plained.  "I  hadn't  your  sort  of  Henry.  You 
see,  my  boy  was  my  only  excuse  for  living. 
You'll  never  know  what  that  means.  And  when 
things  grew  altogether  impossible,  and  I  knew 

[133] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

that  I  must  earn  a  living  for  Jock  and  myself, 
I  just  did  it — that's  all.  I  had  to." 

Hortense  thought  that  over  for  one  deliber 
ate  moment.  Her  brows  were  drawn  in  a 
frown. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  she  announced, 
at  last,  "though  I  don't  know  that  I  can  just 
exactly  put  it  into  words.  I  mean  this :  Some 
people  are  just  bound  to — to  give,  to  build  up 
things,  to — well,  to  manufacture,  because  they 
just  can't  help  it.  It's  in  'em,  and  it's  got  to 
come  out.  Dynamos — that's  what  Henry's 
technical  books  would  call  them.  You're  one — 
a  great  big  one.  I'm  one.  Just  a  little  tiny 
one.  But  it's  sparking  away  there  all  the  time, 
and  it  might  as  well  be  put  to  some  use,  mightn't 
it?" 

Emma  bent  down  and  kissed  the  troubled 
forehead,  and  then,  very  tenderly,  the  pretty, 
puckered  lips. 

"Little  Hortense,"  she  said,  "you're  asking 
a  great  big  question.  I  can  answer  it  for  my 
self,  but  I  can't  answer  it  for  you.  It's  too 
dangerous.  I  wouldn't  if  I  could." 

Emma,  waiting  in  the  hall  for  the  lift,  looked 
back  at  the  slim  little  figure  in  the  doorway. 

[134] 


BLUE  SERGE 

There  was  a  droop  to  the  shoulders.  Emma's 
heart  smote  her. 

"Don't  bother  your  head  about  all  this,  little 
girl,"  she  called  back  to  her.  "Just  forget  to 
be  ambitious  and  remember  to  be  happy. 
That's  much  the  better  way." 

Hortense,  from  the  doorway,  grinned  a 
rather  wicked  little  grin. 

"When  are  you  going  back  to  the  office,  Mrs. 
Buck?"  she  asked,  quietly  enough. 

"What  makes  you  think  I'm  going  back  at 
all?"  demanded  Emma,  stepping  into  the  shaky 
little  elevator. 

"I  don't  think  it,"  retorted  Hortense,  once 
more  the  pert.  "I  know  it." 

Emma  knew  it,  too.  She  had  known  it  from 
the  moment  that  she  shook  hands  in  her  com 
pact.  There  was  still  one  week  remaining  of 
the  stipulated  three  months.  It  seemed  to 
Emma  that  that  one  week  was  longer  than  the 
combined  eleven.  But  she  went  through  with 
colors  flying.  Whatever  Emma  McChesney 
Buck  did,  she  did  well.  But,  then,  T.  A.  Buck 
had  done  his  part  well,  too — so  well  that,  on 
the  final  day,  Emma  felt  a  sinking  at  her  heart. 
He  seemed  so  satisfied  with  affairs  as  they  were. 

[135] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

He  was,  apparently,  so  content  to  drop  all 
thought  of  business  when  he  left  the  office  for 
his  home. 

Emma  had  planned  a  very  special  little  din 
ner  that  evening.  She  wore  a  very  special 
gown,  too — one  of  the  new  ones.  T.  A.  noticed 
it  at  once,  and  the  dinner  as  well,  being  that 
kind  of  husband.  Still,  Annie,  the  cook,  com 
plained  later,  to  the  parlor-maid,  about  the 
thanklessness  of  cooking  dinners  for  folks  who 
didn't  eat  more'n  a  mouthful,  anyway. 

Dinner  over, 

"Well,  Emma?"  said  T.  A.  Buck. 

"Light  your  cigar,  T.  A.,"  said  Emma. 
"You'll  need  it." 

T.  A.  lighted  it  with  admirable  leisureliness, 
sent  out  a  great  puff  of  fragrant  smoke,  and  sur 
veyed  his  wife  through  half-closed  lids.  Be 
neath  his  air  of  ease  there  was  a  tension. 

"Well,  Emma?"  he  said  again,  gently. 

Emma  looked  at  him  a  moment  apprecia 
tively.  She  had  too  much  poise  and  balance 
and  control  herself  not  to  recognize  and  admire 
those  qualities  in  others. 

"T.  A.,  if  I  had  been  what  they  call  a  home- 


BLUE  SERGE 

body,  we  wouldn't  be  married  to-day,  would 
we?" 

"No." 

"You  knew  plenty  of  home-women  that  you 
could  have  married,  didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  ask  them,  Emma,  but " 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  Now  listen,  T. 
A. :  I've  loafed  for  three  months.  I've  lolled 
and  lazied  and  languished.  And  I've  never 
been  so  tired  in  my  life — not  even  when  we 
were  taking  January  inventory.  Another 
month  of  this,  and  I'd  be  an  old,  old  woman. 
I  understand,  now,  what  it  is  that  brings  that 
hard,  tired,  stony  look  into  the  faces  of  the  idle 
women.  They  have  to  work  so  hard  to  try  to 
keep  happy.  I  suppose  if  I  had  been  a  home 
body  all  my  life,  I  might  be  hardened  to  this 
kind  of  thing.  But  it's  too  late  now.  And  I'm 
thankful  for  it.  Those  women  who. want  to 
shop  and  dress  and  drive  and  play  are  welcome 
to  my  share  of  it.  If  I  am  to  be  punished  in 
the  next  world  for  my  wickedness  in  this,  I 
know  what  form  my  torture  will  take.  I  shall 
have  to  go  from  shop  to  shop  with  a  piece  of 
lace  in  my  hand,  matching  a  sample  of  inser 
tion.  Fifteen  years  of  being  in  the  thick  of  it 

[137] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

spoil  one  for  tatting  and  tea.  The  world  is  full 
of  homebodies,  I  suppose.  And  they're  happy. 
I  suppose  I  might  have  been  one,  too,  if  I 
hadn't  been  obliged  to  get  out  and  hustle.  But 
it's  too  late  to  learn  now.  Besides,  I  don't 
want  to.  If  I  do  try,  I'll  be  destroying  the  very 
thing  that  attracted  you  to  me  in  the  first  place. 
Remember  what  you  said  about  the  Fifth  Ave 
nue  girl?" 

"But,  Emma,"  interrupted  Buck  very  quietly, 
"I  don't  want  you  to  try." 

Emma,  with  a  rush  of  words  at  her  very  lips, 
paused,  eyed  him  for  a  doubtful  moment,  asked 
a  faltering  question. 

"But  it  was  your  plan — you  said  you  wanted 
me  to  be  here  when  you  came  home  and  when 
you  left,  didn't  you?  Do  you  mean  you " 

"I  mean  that  I've  missed  my  business  part 
ner  every  minute  for  three  months.  All  the 
time  we've  been  going  to  those  fool  dinners 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  I've  been  bursting 
to  talk  skirts  to  you.  I — say,  Emma,  Adler's 
designed  a  new  model — a  full  one,  of  course, 
but  there's  something  wrong  with  it.  I  can't 
put  my  finger  on  the  flaw,  but " 

Emma  came  swiftly  over  to  his  chair. 

[138] 


BLUE  SERGE 

"Make  a  sketch  of  it,  can't  you?"  she  said. 

From  his  pocket  Buck  drew  a  pencil,  an  en 
velope,  and  fell  to  sketching  rapidly,  squinting 
down  through  his  cigar  smoke  as  he  worked. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  began,  absorbed  and 
happy;  "you  see,  where  the  fulness  begins  at 
the  knee " 

"Yes!"  prompted  Emma,  breathlessly. 

Two  hours  later  they  were  still  bent  over 
the  much  marked  bit  of  paper.  But  their  in 
terest  in  it  was  not  that  of  those  who  would 
solve  a  perplexing  problem.  It  was  the  linger 
ing,  satisfied  contemplation  of  a  task  accom 
plished. 

Emma  straightened,  leaned  back,  sighed — a 
victorious,  happy  sigh. 

"And  to  think,"  she  said,  marveling,  "to 
think  that  I  once  envied  the  women  who  had 
nothing  to  do  but  the  things  I've  done  in  the 
last  three  months !" 

Buck  had  risen,  stretched  luxuriously, 
yawned.  Now  he  came  over  to  his  wife  and 
took  her  head  in  his  two  hands,  cozily,  and 
stood  a  moment  looking  into  her  shining  eyes. 

"Emma,  I  may  have  mentioned  this  once  or 
twice  before,  but  perhaps  you'll  still  be  inter- 
[139] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

ested  to  know  that  I  think  you're  a  wonder.  A 
wonder!  You're  the " 

"Oh,  well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  that," 
smiled  Emma  brazenly.  "But  I  wonder  if  Ad- 
ler  will  agree  with  us  when  he  sees  what  we've 
done  to  his  newest  skirt  design." 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  seemed  to  strike  her. 
She  was  off  down  the  hall.  Buck,  following  in 
a  leisurely  manner,  hands  in  pockets,  stood  in 
the  bedroom  door  and  watched  her  plunge  into 
the  innermost  depths  of  the  clothes-closet. 

"What's  the  idea,  Emma?" 

"Looking  for  something,"  came  back  his 
wife's  muffled  tones. 

A  long  wait. 

"Can  I  help?" 

"I've  got  it!"  cried  Emma,  and  emerged  tri 
umphant,  flushed,  smiling,  holding  a  garment 
at  arm's  length,  aloft. 

"What " 

Emma  shook  it  smartly,  turned  it  this  way 
and  that,  held  it  up  under  her  chin  by  the 
sleeves. 

"Why,  girl!"  exclaimed  Buck,  all  a-grin,  "it's 
the " 

"The  blue  serge,"  Emma  finished  for  him, 
[140] 


BLUE  SERGE 

"with  the  white  collars  and  cuffs.  And  what's 
more,  young  man,  it's  the  little  blue  hat  with 
the  what-cha-ma-call-ems  on  it.  And  praise  be ! 
I'm  wearing  'em  both  down-town  to-morrow 
morning." 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

EMMA  McCHESNEY  BUCK  always 
vigorously  disclaimed  any  knowledge  of 
that  dreamy-eyed  damsel  known  as  Inspiration. 
T.  A.  Buck,  her  husband-partner,  accused  her 
of  being  on  intimate  terms  with  the  lady.  So 
did  the  adoring  office  staff  of  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Featherloom  Petticoat  Company.  Out  in  the 
workshop  itself,  the  designers  and  cutters,  those 
jealous  artists  of  the  pencil,  shears,  and  yard 
stick,  looked  on  in  awed  admiration  on  those 
rare  occasions  when  the  feminine  member  of 
the  business  took  the  scissors  in  her  firm  white 
hands  and  slashed  boldly  into  a  shimmering 
length  of  petticoat-silk.  When  she  put  down 
the  great  shears,  there  lay  on  the  table  the  de 
tached  parts  of  that  which  the  appreciative  and 
experienced  eyes  of  the  craftsmen  knew  to  be  a 
new  and  original  variation  of  that  elastic  gar 
ment  known  as  the  underskirt. 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

For  weeks  preceding  one  of  these  cutting- 
exhibitions,  Emma  was  likely  to  be  not  quite  her 
usual  brisk  self.  A  mystic  glow  replaced  the 
alert  brightness  of  her  eye.  Her  wide-awake 
manner  gave  way  to  one  of  almost  sluggish  in 
activity. 

The  outer  office,  noting  these  things,  would 
lift  its  eyebrows  significantly. 

"Another  hunch!"  it  would  whisper.  "The 
last  time  she  beat  the  rest  of  the  trade  by  six 
weeks  with  that  elastic-top  gusset." 

"Inspiration  working,  Emma?"  T.  A.  Buck 
would  ask,  noting  the  symptoms. 

"It  isn't  inspiration,  T.  A.  Nothing  of  the 
kind!  It's  just  an  attack  of  imagination,  com 
plicated  by  clothes-instinct." 

"That's  all  that  ails  Poiret,"  Buck  would  re 
tort. 

Early  in  the  autumn,  when  women  were  still 
walking  with  an  absurd  sidewise  gait,  like  a 
duck,  or  a  filly  that  is  too  tightly  hobbled,  the 
junior  partner  of  the  firm  began  to  show  un 
mistakable  signs  of  business  aberration.  A 
blight  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  her  bright 
little  office,  usually  humming  with  activity. 
The  machinery  of  her  day,  ordinarily  as  noise- 

[143] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

less  and  well  ordered  as  a  thing  on  ball  bear 
ings,  now  rasped,  creaked,  jerked,  stood  still, 
jolted  on  again.  A  bustling  clerk  or  stenogra 
pher,  entering  with  paper  or  memorandum, 
would  find  her  bent  over  her  desk,  pencil  in 
hand,  absorbed  in  a  rough  drawing  that  seemed 
to  bear  no  relation  to  the  skirt  of  the  day.  The 
margin  of  her  morning  paper  was  filled  with 
queer  little  scrawls  by  the  time  she  reached  the 
office.  She  drew  weird  lines  with  her  fork  on 
the  table-cloth  at  lunch.  These  hieroglyphics 
she  covered  with  a  quick  hand,  like  a  bashful 
schoolgirl,  when  any  one  peeped. 

"Tell  a  fellow  what  it's  going  to  be,  can't 
you?"  pleaded  Buck.  "I  got  one  glimpse  yes 
terday,  when  you  didn't  know  I  was  looking 
over  your  shoulder.  It  seemed  a  pass  between 
an  overgrown  Zeppelin  and  an  apple  dumpling. 
So  I  know  it  can't  be  a  skirt.  Come  on,  Emma ; 
tell  your  old  man!" 

"Not  yet,"  Emma  would  reply  dreamily. 

Buck  would  strike  an  attitude  intended  to  in 
timidate. 

"If  you  have  no  sense  of  what  is  due  me  as 
your  husband,  then  I  demand,  as  senior  partner 
of  this  firm,  to  know  what  it  is  that  is  taking 
[H4] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

your  time,  which  rightfully  belongs  to  this  busi 


ness." 


"Go  away,  T.  A.,  and  stop  pestering  me! 
What  do  you  think  I'm  designing — a  doily?" 

Buck,  turning  to  go  to  his  own  office,  threw 
a  last  retort  over  his  shoulder — a  rather  sober 
ing  one,  this  time. 

"Whatever  it  is,  it  had  better  be  good — with 
business  what  it  is  and  skirts  what  they  are." 

Emma  lifted  her  head  to  reply  to  that. 

"It  isn't  what  they  are  that  interests  me.  It's 
what  they're  going  to  be." 

Buck  paused  in  the  doorway. 

"Going  to  be !  Anybody  can  see  that.  Un 
derneath  that  full,  fool,  flaring  over-drape,  the 
real  skirt  is  as  tight  as  ever.  I  don't  think  the 
spring  models  will  show  an  inch  of  real  dif 
ference.  I  tell  you,  Emma,  it's  serious." 

Emma,  apparently  absorbed  in  her  work,  did 
not  reply  to  this.  But  a  vague  something  about 
the  back  of  her  head  told  T.  A.  Buck  that  she 
was  laughing  at  him.  The  knowledge  only 
gave  him  new  confidence  in  this  resourceful, 
many-sided,  lovable,  level-headed  partner-wife 
of  his. 

Two     weeks     went     by — four — six — eight. 

[145] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Emma  began  to  look  a  little  thin.  Her  bright 
color  was  there  only  when  she  was  overtired  or 
excited.  The  workrooms  began  to  talk  of  new 
designs  for  spring,  though  it  was  scarcely  mid 
winter.  The  head  designer  came  forward  tim 
idly  with  a  skirt  that  measured  a  yard  around 
the  bottom.  Emma  looked  at  it,  tried  to  keep 
her  lower  lip  prisoner  between  her  teeth,  failed, 
and  began  to  laugh  helplessly,  almost  hysteri 
cally. 

Amazement  in  the  faces  of  Buck  and  Koritz, 
the  designer,  became  consternation,  then,  in  the 
designer,  resentment. 

Koritz,  dark,  undersized,  with  the  eyes  of  an 
Oriental  and  the  lean,  sensitive  fingers  of  one 
who  creates,  shivered  a  little,  like  a  plant  that 
is  swept  by  an  icy  blast.  Buck  came  over  and 
laid  one  hand  on  his  wife's  shaking  shoulder. 

"Emma,  you're  overtired!  This — this  thing 
you've  been  slaving  over  has  been  too  much 
for  you." 

With  one  hand,  Emma  reached  up  and  pat 
ted  the  fingers  that  rested  protectingly  on  her 
shoulder.  With  the  other,  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
then,  all  contrition,  grasped  the  slender  brown 
hand  of  the  offended  Koritz. 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

"Bennie,  please  forgive  me!  I — I  didn't 
mean  to  laugh.  I  wasn't  laughing  at  your  new 
skirt." 

"You  think  it's  too  wide,  maybe,  huh?"  Ben 
nie  Koritz  said,  and  held  it  up  doubtfully. 

"Too  wide!"  For  a  moment  Emma  seemed 
threatened  with  another  attack  of  that  inex 
plicable  laughter.  She  choked  it  back  reso 
lutely. 

"No,  Bennie;  not  too  wide.  I'll  tell  you  to 
morrow  why  I  laughed.  Then,  perhaps,  you'll 
laugh  with  me." 

Bennie,  draping  his  despised  skirt-model  over 
one  arm,  had  the  courage  to  smile  even  now, 
though  grimly. 

"I  laugh — sure,"  he  said,  showing  his  white 
teeth  now.  "But  the  laugh  will  be,  I  bet  you, 
on  me — like  it  was  when  you  designed  that 
knickerbocker  before  the  trade  knew  such  a 
thing  could  be." 

Impulsively  Emma  grasped  his  hand  and 
shook  it,  as  though  she  found  a  certain  needed 
encouragement  in  the  loyalty  of  this  sallow  lit 
tle  Russian. 

"Bennie,  you're  a  true  artist — because 
you're  big  enough  to  praise  the  work  of  a  fel- 

[147] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

low  craftsman  when  you  recognize  its  value." 

And  Koritz,  the  dull  red  showing  under  the 
olive  of  his  cheeks,  went  back  to  his  cutting- 
table  happy. 

Buck  bent  forward,  eagerly. 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  now,  Emma?  It's 
finished?" 

"To-night — at  home.  I  want  to  be  the  first 
to  try  it  on.  I'll  play  model.  A  private  exhibi 
tion,  jusc  for  you.  It's  not  only  finished;  it  is 
patented." 

"Patented!  But  why?  What  is  it,  any 
way?  A  new  fastener?  I  thought  it  was  a 
skirt." 

"Wait  until  you  see  it.  You'll  think  I  should 
have  had  it  copyrighted  as  well,  not  to  say 
passed  by  the  national  board  of  censors." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I'm  to  be  the  en 
tire  audience  at  the  premiere  of  this  new 
model?" 

"You  are  to  be  audience,  critic,  orchestra, 
box-holder,  patron,  and  'Diamond  Jim'  Brady. 
Now  run  along  into  your  own  office — won't 
you,  dear?  I  want  to  get  out  these  letters." 
And  she  pressed  the  button  that  summoned  a 
stenographer. 


'  'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I'm  to  be  the  entire  audience  at  the 
premiere  of  this  new  model?'  "—Page  148 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

T.  A.  Buck,  resigned,  admiring,  and  antici 
patory,  went. 

Annie,  the  cook,  was  justified  that  evening 
in  her  bitter  complaint.  Her  excellent  dinner 
received  scant  enough  attention  from  these  two. 
They  hurried  through  it  like  eager,  bright-eyed 
school-children  who  have  been  promised  a  treat. 
Two  scarlet  spots  glowed  in  Emma's  cheeks. 
Buck's  eyes,  through  the  haze  of  his  after-din 
ner  cigar,  were  luminous. 

"Now?" 

"No;  not  yet.  I  want  you  to  smoke  your 
cigar  and  digest  your  dinner  and  read  your 
paper.  I  want  you  to  twiddle  your  thumbs  a 
little  and  look  at  your  watch.  First-night  cur 
tains  are  always  late  in  rising,  aren't  they? 
Well!" 

She  turned  on  the  full  glare  of  the  chande 
lier,  turned  it  off,  went  about  flicking  on  the 
soft-shaded  wall  lights  and  the  lamps. 

"Turn  your  chair  so  that  your  back  will  be 
toward  the  door." 

He  turned  it  obediently. 

Emma  vanished. 

From  the  direction  of  her  bedroom  there 
presently  came  the  sounds  of  dresser  drawers 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

hurriedly  opened  and  shut  with  a  bang,  of  a 
slipper  dropped  on  the  hard-wood  floor,  a  tune 
hummed  in  an  absent-minded  absorption  under 
the  breath,  an  excited  little  laugh  nervously 
stifled.  Buck,  in  his  role  of  audience,  began  to 
clap  impatiently  and  to  stamp  with  his  feet  on 
the  floor. 

"No  gallery!"  Emma  called  in  from  the  hall. 
"Remember  the  temperamental  family  on  the 
floor  below!"  A  silence — then:  "I'm  coming. 
Shut  your  eyes  and  prepare  to  be  jarred  by  the 
Buck  balloon-petticoat!" 

There  was  a  rustling  of  silks,  a  little  rush 
to  the  center  of  the  big  room,  a  breathless 
pause,  a  sharp  snap  of  finger  and  thumb.  Buck 
opened  his  eyes. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Then  he  closed  them 
and  opened  them  again,  quickly,  as  we  do,  some 
times,  when  we  are  unwilling  to  believe  that 
which  we  see.  What  he  beheld  was  this:  A 
very  pretty,  very  flushed,  very  bright-eyed 
woman,  her  blond  hair  dressed  quaintly  after 
the  fashion  of  the  early  'Sixties,  her  arms  and 
shoulders  bare,  a  pink-slip  with  shoulder-straps 
in  lieu  of  a  bodice,  and — he  passed  a  bewil 
dered  hand  over  his  eyes — a  skirt  that  billowed 
[150] 


I" 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR! 

and  flared  and  flounced  and  spread  in  a  great, 
graceful  circle — a  skirt  strangely  light  for  all 
its  fulness — a  skirt  like,  and  yet,  somehow,  un 
like  those  garments  seen  in  ancient  copies  of 
Godey's  Lady  Book. 

"That  can't  be — you  don't  mean — what — 
what  is  it?"  stammered  Buck,  dismayed. 

Emma,  her  arms  curved  above  her  head  like 
a  ballet-dancer's,  pirouetted,  curtsied  very  low 
so  that  the  skirt  spread  all  about  her  on  the 
floor,  like  the  petals  of  a  flower. 

"Hoops,  my  dear!" 

"Hoops !"  echoed  Buck,  in  weak  protest. 
"Hoops,  my  dear!" 

Emma  stroked  one  silken  fold  with  approv 
ing  fingers. 

"Our  new  leader  for  spring." 

"But,  Emma,  you're  joking!" 

She  stared,  suddenly  serious. 

"You  mean — you  don't  like  it!" 

"Like  it!  For  a  fancy-dress  costume,  yes; 
'but  as  a  petticoat  for  every-day  wear,  to  be 
made  up  by  us  for  our  customers!  But  of 
course  you're  playing  a  trick  on  me."  He 
laughed  a  little  weakly  and  came  toward  her. 
"You  can't  catch  me  that  way,  old  girl!  It's 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

darned  becoming,  Emma — I'll  say  that."  He 
bent  down,  smiling.  "I'll  allow  you  to  kiss  me. 
And  then  try  me  with  the  real  surprise,  will 
you?" 

Her  coquetry  vanished.  Her  smile  fled  with 
it.  Her  pretty  pose  was  abandoned.  Mrs. 
T.  A.  Buck,  wife,  gave  way  to  Emma  McChes- 
ney  Buck,  business  woman.  She  stiffened  a  lit 
tle,  as  though  bracing  herself  for  a  verbal  en 
counter. 

"You'll  get  used  to  it.  I  expected  you  to  be 
jolted  at  the  first  shock  of  it.  I  was,  myself — 
when  the  idea  came  to  me." 

Buck  passed  a  frenzied  forefinger  under  his 
collar,  as  though  it  had  suddenly  grown  too 
tight  for  him. 

"Used  to  it!  I  don't  want  to  get  used  to  it! 
It's  preposterous !  You  can't  be  serious !  No 
woman  would  wear  a  garment  like  that!  For 

five  years  skirts  have  been  tighter  and  tight- 
pr >» 

C  JL  """" 

"Until  this  summer  they  became  tightest," 
interrupted  Emma.  "They  could  go  no  far 
ther.  I  knew  that  meant,  'About  face !'  I  knew 
it  meant  not  a  slightly  wider  skirt  but  a  wildly 
wider  skirt.  A  skirt  as  bouffant  as  the  other 

[1523 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

had  been  scant.  I  was  sure  it  wouldn't  be  a 
gradual  process  at  all  but  a  mushroom  growth 
— hobbles  to-day,  hoops  to-morrow.  Study  the 
history  of  women's  clothes,  and  you'll  find  that 
has  always  been  true." 

"Look  here,  Emma,"  began  Buck,  desper 
ately;  "you're  wrong,  all  wrong!  Here,  let  me 
throw  this  scarf  over  your  shoulders.  Now 
we'll  sit  down  and  talk  this  thing  over  sensi 
bly." 

"I'll  agree  to  the  scarf" — she  drew  a  soft, 
silken,  fringed  shawl  about  her  and  immediately 
one  thought  of  a  certain  vivid,  brilliant  portrait 
of  a  hoop-skirted  dancer — "but  don't  ask  me 
to  sit  down.  I'd  rebound  like  a  toy  balloon. 
I've  got  to  convince  you  of  this  thing.  I'll 
have  to  do  it  standing." 

Buck  sank  into  his  chair  and  dabbed  at  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"You'll  never  convince  me,  sitting  or  stand 
ing.  Emma,  I  know  I  fought  the  knickerbocker 
when  you  originated  it,  and  I  know  that  it 
turned  out  to  be  a  magnificent  success.  But  this 
is  different.  The  knicker  was  practical;  this 
thing's  absurd — it's  impossible !  This  is  an  age 
of  activity.  In  Civil  War  days  women  minced 

[153] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

daintily  along  when  they  walked  at  all.  They 
stitched  on  samplers  by  way  of  diversion." 

"What  has  all  that  to  do  with  it?"  inquired 
Emma  sweetly. 

"Everything.    Use  a  little  logic." 

"Logic!  In  a  discussion  about  women's 
dress !  T.  A.,  I'm  surprised." 

"But,  Emma,  be  reasonable.  Good  Lord! 
You're  usually  clear-sighted  enough.  Our  mode 
of  living  has  changed  in  the  last  fifty  years — 
our  methods  of  transit,  our  pastimes,  customs, 
everything.  Imagine  a  woman  trying  to  climb 
a  Fifth  Avenue  'bus  in  one  of  those  things. 
Fancy  her  in  a  hot  set  of  tennis.  Women  use 
street-cars,  automobiles,  airships.  Can  you  see 
a  subway  train  full  of  hoop-skirted  clerks,  sten 
ographers,  and  models?  Street-car  steps  aren't 
built  for  it.  Office-building  elevators  can't 
stand  for  it.  Six-room  apartments  won't  ac 
commodate  'em.  They're  fantastic,  wild,  im 
probable.  You're  wrong,  Emma — all  wrong!" 

She  had  listened  patiently  enough,  never  once 
attempting  to  interrupt.  But  on  her  lips  was 
the  maddening  half-smile  of  one  whose  rebuttal 
is  ready.  Now  she  perched  for  a  moment  at 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  arm  of  a  chair.  Her 

[154] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

skirt  subsided  decorously.  Buck  noticed  that, 
with  surprise,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  heated 
protest. 

"T.  A.,  you've  probably  forgotten,  but  those 
are  the  very  arguments  used  when  the  hobble 
was  introduced.  Preposterous,  people  said — 
impossible!  Women  couldn't  walk  in  'em. 
Wouldn't,  couldn't  sit  down  in  'em.  Women 
couldn't  run,  play  tennis,  skate  in  them.  The 
car  steps  were  too  high  for  them.  Well,  what 
happened?  Women  had  to  walk  in  them,  and 
a  new  gait  became  the  fashion.  Women  took 
lessons  in  how  to  sit  down  in  them.  They 
slashed  them  for  tennis  and  skating.  And 
street-car  companies  all  over  the  country  low 
ered  the  car  steps  to  accommodate  them. 
What's  true  for  the  hobble  holds  good  for  the 
hoop.  Women  will  cease  to  single-foot  and 
learn  to  undulate  when  they  walk.  They'll 
widen  the  car  platforms.  They'll  sit  on  top  the 
Fifth  Avenue  'buses,  and  you'll  never  give  them 
a  second  thought." 

uThe  things  don't  stay  where  they  belong. 
Pve  seen  'em  misbehave  in  musical  comedies," 
argued  Buck  miserably. 

"That's  where  my  patent  comes  in.     The 

[155] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

old  hoop  was  cumbersome,  unwieldy,  clumsy. 
The  new  skirt,  by  my  patent  featherboning 
process,  is  made  light,  graceful,  easily  man 
aged.  T.  A.,  I  predict  that  by  midsummer  a 
tight  skirt  will  be  as  rare  a  sight  as  a  full  one 
was  a  year  ago." 

"Nonsense!" 

"We're  not  quarreling,  are  we?" 

"Quarreling!  I  rather  think  not!  A  man 
can  have  his  own  opinion,  can't  he?" 

It  appeared,  however,  that  he  could  not. 
For  when  they  had  threshed  it  out,  inch  by  inch, 
as  might  two  partners  whose  only  bond  was 
business,  it  was  Emma  who  won. 

"Remember,  I'm  not  convinced,"  Buck 
warned  her;  "I'm  only  beaten  by  superior  force. 
But  I  do  believe  in  your  woman's  intuition — I'll 
say  that.  It  has  never  gone  wrong.  I'm  bank 
ing  on  it." 

"It's  woman's  intuition  when  we  win,"  Emma 
observed,  thoughtfully.  "When  we  lose  it's  a 
foolish,  feminine  notion." 

There  were  to  be  no  half-way  measures. 
The  skirt  was  to  be  the  feature  of  the  spring 
line.  Cutters  and  designers  were  one  with  Buck 
in  thinking  it  a  freak  garment.  Emma  re- 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

minded  them  that  the  same  thing  had  been  said 
of  the  hobble  on  its  appearance. 

In  February,  Billy  Spalding,  veteran  skirt- 
salesman,  led  a  flying  wedge  of  six  on  a  test- 
trip  that  included  the  Middle  West  and  the 
Coast.  Their  sample-trunks  had  to  be  rebuilt 
to  accommodate  the  new  model.  Spalding, 
shirt-sleeved,  whistling  dolorously,  eyed  each 
garment  with  a  look  of  bristling  antagonism. 
Spalding  sold  skirts  on  commission. 

Emma,  surveying  his  labors,  lifted  a  quizzi 
cal  eyebrow. 

"If  you're  going  to  sell  that  skirt  as  enthusi 
astically  as  you  pack  it,  you'd  better  stay  here 
in  New  York  and  save  the  house  traveling  ex 
penses." 

Spalding  ceased  to  whistle.  He  held  up  a 
billowy  sample  and  gazed  at  it. 

"Honestly,  Mrs.  Buck,  you  know  I'd  try  to 
sell  pretzels  in  London  if  you  asked  me  to. 
But  do  you  really  think  any  woman  alive  would 
be  caught  wearing  a  garment  like  this  in  these 
days?" 

"Not  only  do  I  think  it,  Billy;  I'm  certain 
of  it.  This  new  petticoat  makes  me  the  Lincoln 
of  the  skirt  trade.  I'm  literally  freeing  my  sis- 
[157] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

ters  from  the  shackles  that  have  bound  their 
ankles  for  five  years." 

Spalding,  unimpressed,  folded  another  skirt. 

"Um,  maybe!  But  what's  that  line  about 
slaves  hugging  their  chains?" 

The  day  following,  Spalding  and  his  flying 
squad  scattered  to  spread  the  light  among  the 
skirt  trade.  And  things  went  wrong  from  the 
start. 

The  first  week  showed  an  ominous  lack  of 
those  cheering  epistles  beginning,  "Enclosed 
please  find,"  etc.  The  second  was  worse.  The 
third  was  equally  bad.  The  fourth  was  final. 
The  second  week  in  March,  Spalding  returned 
from  a  territory  which  had  always  been  known 
as  firmly  wedded  to  the  T.  A.  Buck  Feather- 
loom  petticoat.  The  Middle  West  would  have 
none  of  him. 

They  held  the  post-mortem  in  Emma's  bright 
little  office,  and  that  lady  herself  seemed  to  be 
strangely  sunny  and  undaunted,  considering  the 
completeness  of  her  defeat.  She  sat  at  her  desk 
now,  very  interested,  very  bright-eyed,  very 
calm.  Buck,  in  a  chair  at  the  side  of  her  desk, 
was  interested,  too,  but  not  so  calm.  Spalding, 
who  was  accustomed  to  talk  while  standing, 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

leaned  against  the  desk,  feet  crossed,  brows  fur 
rowed.  As  he  talked,  he  emphasized  his  re 
marks  by  jabbing  the  air  with  his  pencil. 

"Well,"  said  Emma  quietly,  "it  didn't  go." 

"It  didn't  even  start,"  corrected  Spalding. 

"But  why?"  demanded  Buck.     "Why?" 

Spalding  leaned  forward  a  little,  eagerly. 

"I'll  tell  you  something :  When  I  started  out 
with  that  little  garment,  I  thought  it  was  a  joke. 
Before  I'd  been  out  with  it  a  week,  I  began  to 
like  it.  In  ten  days,  I  was  crazy  about  it,  and 
I  believed  in  it  from  the  waistband  to  the  hem. 
On  the  level,  Mrs.  Buck,  I  think  it's  a  wonder. 
Now,  can  you  explain  that?" 

"Yes,"  said  Emma;  "you  didn't  like  it  at 
first  because  it  was  a  shock  to  you.  It  outraged 
all  your  ideas  of  what  a  skirt  ought  to  be. 
Then  you  grew  accustomed  to  it.  Then  you  be 
gan  to  see  its  good  points.  Why  couldn't  you 
make  the  trade  get  your  viewpoint?" 

"This  is  why:  Out  in  Manistee  and  Osh- 
kosh  and  Terre  Haute,  the  girls  have  just  really 
learned  the  trick  of  walking  in  tight  skirts.  It's 
as  impossible  to  convince  a  Middle  West  buyer 
that  the  exaggerated  full  skirt  is  going  to  be 
worn  next  summer  as  it  would  be  to  prove  to 

[159] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

him  that  men  are  going  to  wear  sunbonnets. 
They  thought  I  was  trying  to  sell  'em  masquer 
ade  costumes.  I  may  believe  in  it,  and  you 
may  believe  in  it,  and  T.  A. ;  but  the  girls  from 
Joplin — well,  they're  from  Joplin.  And  they're 
waiting  to  hear  from  headquarters." 

T.  A.  Buck  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other 
and  sat  up  with  a  little  sigh. 

"Well,  that  settles  it,  doesn't  it?"  he  said. 

"It  does  not,"  replied  Emma  McChesney 
Buck  crisply.  "If  they  want  to  hear  from 
headquarters,  they  won't  have  long  to  wait." 

"Now,  Emma,  don't  try  to  push  this  thing 
if  it " 

"T.  A.,  please  don't  look  so  forgiving.  I'd 
much  rather  have  you  reproach  me." 

"It's  you  I'm  thinking  of,  not  the  skirt." 

"But  I  want  you  to  think  of  the  skirt,  too. 
We've  gone  into  this  thing,  and  it  has  cost  us 
thousands.  Don't  think  I'm  going  to  sit  quietly 
by  and  watch  those  thousands  trickle  out  of  our 
hands.  We've  played  our  first  card.  It  didn't 
take  a  trick.  Here's  another." 

Buck  and  Spalding  were  leaning  forward,  in 
terested,  attentive.  There  was  that  in  Emma's 
vivid,  glowing  face  which  did  not  mean  defeat. 

[i  60] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

"March  fifteenth,  at  Madison  Square  Gar 
den,  there  is  to  be  held  the  first  annual  exhibi 
tion  of  the  Society  for  the  Promotion  of  Ameri 
can  Styles  for  American  Women.  For  one 
hundred  years  we've  taken  our  fashions  as  Paris 
dictated,  regardless  of  whether  they  outraged 
our  sense  of  humor  or  decency  or  of  fitness. 
This  year  the  American  designer  is  going  to 
have  a  chance.  Am  I  an  American  designer, 
T.  A.,  Billy  ?" 

"Yes!"  in  chorus. 

"Then  I  shall  exhibit  that  skirt  on  a  live 
model  at  the  First  Annual  American  Fashion 
Show  next  month.  Every  skirt-buyer  in  the 
country  will  be  there.  If  it  takes  hold  there, 
it's  made — and  so  are  we." 

March  came,  and  with  it  an  army  of  men  and 
women  buyers,  dependent,  for  the  first  time  in 
their  business  careers,  on  the  ingenuity  of  the 
American  brain.  The  keen-eyed  legions  that 
had  advanced  on  Europe  early,  armed  with  let 
ters  of  credit — the  vast  horde  that  returned 
each  spring  and  autumn  laden  with  their  spoils 
— hats,  gowns,  laces,  linens,  silks,  embroider 
ies — were  obliged  to  content  themselves  with 
what  was  to  be  found  in  their  own  camp. 
[161] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Clever  manager  that  she  was,  Emma  took  as 
much  pains  with  her  model  as  with  the  skirt 
itself.  She  chose  a  girl  whose  demure  pretti- 
ness  and  quiet  charm  would  enhance  the  possi 
bilities  of  the  skirt's  practicability  in  the  eye 
of  the  shrewd  buyer.  Gertrude,  the  model,  de 
veloped  a  real  interest  in  the  success  of  the  pet 
ticoat.  Emma  knew  enough  about  the  psychol 
ogy  of  crowds  to  realize  how  this  increased  her 
chances  for  success. 

The  much  heralded  fashion  show  was  to 
open  at  one  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  March 
fifteenth.  At  ten  o'clock  that  morning,  there 
breezed  in  from  Chicago  a  tall,  slim,  alert 
young  man,  who  made  straight  for  the  offices 
of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Com 
pany,  walked  into  the  junior  partner's  private 
office,  and  took  that  astonished  lady  in  his  two 
strong  arms. 

"Jock  McChesney!"  gasped  his  rumpled 
mother,  emerging  from  the  hug.  "I've  been 
hungry  for  a  sight  of  you!"  She  was  sub 
merged  in  a  second  hug.  "Come  here  to  the 
window  where  I  can  get  a  real  look  at  you! 
Why  didn't  you  wire  me?  What  are  you  doing 
away  from  your  own  job?  How's  business? 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

And  why  come  to-day,  of  all  days,  when  I  can't 
make  a  fuss  over  you?" 

Jock  McChesney,  bright-eyed,  clear-skinned, 
steady  of  hand,  stood  up  well  under  the  satis 
fied  scrutiny  of  his  adoring  mother.  He  smiled 
down  at  her. 

"Wanted  to  surprise  you.  Here  for  three 
reasons — the  Abbott  Grape-juice  advertising 
contract,  you,  and  Grace.  And  why  can't  you 
make  a  fuss  over  me,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Emma  told  him.  His  keen,  quick  mind  re 
quired  little  in  the  way  of  explanation. 

"But  why  didn't  you  let  me  in  on  it  sooner?" 

"Because,  son,  nothing  explains  harder  than 
embryo  success.  I  always  prefer  to  wait  until 
it's  grown  up  and  let  it  do  its  own  explain- 
ing." 

"But  the  thing  ought  to  have  national  adver 
tising,"  Jock  insisted,  with  the  advertising 
expert's  lightning  grasp  of  its  possibilities. 
"What  that  skirt  needs  is  publicity.  Why  didn't 
you  let  me  handle " 

"Yes,  I  know,   dear;  but  you  haven't  seen 

the  skirt.     It  won't  do  to  ram  it  down  their 

throats.     I  want  to  ease  it  to  them  first.      I 

want  them  to  get  used  to  it.     It  failed  utterly 

[163] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

on  the  road,  because  it  jarred  their  notion  of 
what  a  petticoat  ought  to  be.  That's  due  to 
five  years  of  sheath  skirts." 

"But  suppose — just  for  the  sake  of  argument 
— that  it  doesn't  strike  them  right  this  after 
noon?" 

"Then  it's  gone,  that's  all.  Six  months  from 
now,  every  skirt-factory  in  the  country  will  be 
manufacturing  a  similar  garment.  People  will 
be  ready  for  it  then.  I've  just  tried  to  cut  in 
ahead  of  the  rest.  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have 
tried  to  do  it." 

Jock  hugged  her  again  at  that,  to  the  edifica 
tion  of  the  office  windows  across  the  way. 

"Gad,  you're  a  wiz,  mother!  Now  listen: 
I  'phoned  Grace  when  I  got  in.  She's  going  to 
meet  me  here  at  one.  I'll  chase  over  to  the 
office  now  on  this  grape-juice  thing  and  come 
back  here  in  time  for  lunch.  Is  T.  A.  in?  I'll 
look  in  on  him  a  minute.  We'll  all  lunch  to 
gether,  and  then " 

"Can't  do  it,  son.  The  show  opens  at  one. 
Gertrude,  my  model,  comes  on  at  three.  She's 
going  to  have  the  stage  to  herself  for  ten  min 
utes,  during  which  she'll  make  four  changes  of 
costume  to  demonstrate  the  usefulness  of  the 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

skirt  for  every  sort  of  gown  from  chiffon  to  vel 
vet.  Come  back  here  at  one,  if  you  like.  If 
I'm  not  here,  come  over  to  the  show.  But — 
lunch!  I'd  choke." 

At  twelve-thirty,  there  scampered  into  Em 
ma's  office  a  very  white-faced,  round-eyed  little 
stock-girl.  Emma,  deep  in  a  last-minute  dis 
cussion  with  Buck,  had  a  premonition  of  trouble 
before  the  girl  gasped  out  her  message. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Buck,  Gertie's  awful  sick!" 

"Sick!"  echoed  Emma  and  Buck,  in  duet. 
Then  Emma : 

"But  she  can't  be!  It's  impossible!  She 
was  all  right  a  half  hour  ago."  She  was  hur 
rying  down  the  hall  as  she  spoke.  "Where  is 
she?" 

"They've  got  her  on  one  of  the  tables  in  the 
workroom.  She's  moaning  awful." 

Gertie's  appendix,  with  that  innate  sense  of 
the  dramatic  so  often  found  in  temperamental 
appendices,  had  indeed  chosen  this  moment  to 
call  attention  to  itself.  Gertie,  the  demurely 
pretty  and  quietly  charming,  was  rolled  in  a 
very  tight  ball  on  the  workroom  cutting-table. 
At  one  o'clock,  she  was  on  her  way  home  in  a 
cab,  under  the  care  of  a  doctor,  Miss  Kelly,  the 

[165] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

bookkeeper,  and  Jock,  who,  coming  in  gaily  at 
one,  had  been  pressed  into  service,  bewildered 
but  willing. 

Three  rather  tragic  figures  stared  at  one  an 
other  in  the  junior  partner's  office.  They  were 
Emma,  Buck,  and  Grace  Gait,  Jock's  wife-to- 
be.  Grace  Gait,  slim,  lovely,  girlish,  was 
known,  at  twenty-four,  as  one  of  the  most  ex 
pert  copy  writers  in  the  advertising  world.  In 
her  clear-headed,  capable  manner,  she  tried  to 
suggest  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  now. 

"But  surely  the  world's  full  of  girls,"  she 
said.  "It's  late,  I  know;  but  any  theatrical 
agency  will  send  a  girl  over." 

"That's  just  what  I  tried  to  avoid,"  Emma 
replied.  "I  wanted  to  show  this  skirt  on  a 
sweet,  pretty,  refined  sort  of  girl  who  looks  and 
acts  like  a  lady.  One  of  those  blond  show  girls 
would  kill  it." 

Gloom  settled  down  again  over  the  three. 
Emma  broke  the  silence  with  a  rueful  little 
laugh. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  perhaps  you're 
right,  T.  A.,  and  this  is  the  Lord's  way  of  show 
ing  me  that  the  world  is  not  quite  ready  for 
this  skirt." 

[166] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

"You're  not  beaten  yet,  Emma,"  Buck  as 
sured  her  vigorously.  "How  about  this  new 
girl — what's  her  name? — Myrtle.  She's  one 
of  those  thin,  limp  ones,  isn't  she?  Try  her." 

"I  will,"  said  Emma.  "You're  right.  I'm 
not  beaten  yet.  I've  had  to  fight  for  everything 
worth  while  in  my  life.  I'm  superstitious  about 
it  now.  When  things  come  easy  I'm  afraid  of 
them."  Then,  to  the  stock-girl,  "Annie,  tell 
Myrtle  I  want  to  see  her." 

Silence  fell  again  upon  the  three.  Myrtle, 
very  limp,  very  thin,  very  languid  indeed, 
roused  them  at  her  entrance.  The  hopeful  look 
in  Emma's  eyes  faded  as  she  beheld  her.  Myr 
tle  was  so  obviously  limp,  so  hopelessly  new. 

"Annie  says  you  want  me  to  take  Gertie's 
place,"  drawled  Myrtle,  striking  a  magazine- 
cover  attitude. 

"I  don't  know  that  you  are  just  the — er — 
type;  but  perhaps,  if  you're  willing " 

"Of  course  I  didn't  come  here  as  a  model," 
said  Myrtle,  and  sagged  on  the  other  hip. 
"But,  as  a  special  favor  to  you  I'm  willing  to 
try  it — at  special  model's  rates." 

Emma  ran  a  somewhat  frenzied  hand 
through  her  hair. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"Then,  as  a  special  favor  to  me,  will  you  be 
gin  by  trying  to  stand  up  straight,  please  ?  That 
debutante  slouch  would  kill  a  queen's  corona 
tion  costume." 

Myrtle  straightened,  slumped  again. 

"I  can't  help  it  if  I  am  willowy" — listlessly. 

"Your  hair!"  Myrtle's  hand  went  vaguely 
to  her  head.  "I  can't  have  you  wear  it  that 
way." 

"Why,  this  is  the  French  roll!"  protested 
Myrtle,  offended. 

"Then  do  it  in  a  German  bun!"  snapped 
Emma.  "Any  way  but  that.  Will  you  walk, 
please?" 

"Walk?"— dully. 

"Yes,  walk;  I  want  to  see  how  you " 

Myrtle  walked  across  the  room.  A  groan 
came  from  Emma. 

"I  thought  so."  She  took  a  long  breath. 
"Myrtle,  listen:  That  Australian  crawl  was 
necessary  when  our  skirts  were  so  narrow  we 
had  to  negotiate  a  curbing  before  we  could  take 
it.  But  the  skirt  you're  going  to  demonstrate 
is  wide.  Like  that !  You're  practically  a  free 
woman  in  it.  Step  out!  Stride!  Swing! 
Walk!" 

[168] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

Myrtle  tried  it,  stumbled,  sulked. 

Emma,  half  smiling,  half  woeful,  patted  the 
girl's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  I  see;  you're  wearing  a  tight  one. 
Well,  run  in  and  get  into  the  skirt.  Miss  Loeb 
will  help  you.  Then  come  back  here — and 
quickly,  please." 

The  three  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 
It  was  a  silence  brimming  with  eloquent  mean 
ing.  Each  sought  encouragement  in  the  eyes  of 
the  other — and  failed  to  find  it.  Failing,  they 
broke  into  helpless  laughter.  It  proved  a  safe 
ty-valve. 

"She  may  do,  Emma — when  she  has  her  hair 
done  differently,  and  if  she'll  only  stand  up." 

But  Emma  shook  her  head. 

UT.  A.,  something  tells  me  you're  going  to 
have  a  wonderful  chance  to  say,  'I  told  you  so !' 
at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  say  it,  Emma." 

"Yes;  I  do  know  it,  dear.  But  what's  the 
difference,  if  the  chance  is  there?" 

Suspense  settled  down  on  the  little  office. 
Billy  Spalding  entered,  smiling.  After  five 
minutes  of  waiting,  even  his  buoyant  spirits 
sank. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"Don't  you  think — if  you  were  to  go  in  and 
•. — and  sort  of  help  adjust  things "  sug 
gested  Buck  vaguely. 

"No;  I  don't  want  to  prop  her  up.  She'll 
have  to  stand  alone  when  she  gets  there.  She'll 
either  do,  or  not.  When  she  enters  that  door, 
I'll  know." 

When  Myrtle  entered,  wearing  the  fascinat 
ingly  fashioned  new  model,  they  all  knew. 
Emma  spoke  decisively. 

"That  settles  it." 

"What's  the  matter?  Don't  it  look  all 
right?"  demanded  Myrtle. 

"Take  it  off,  Myrtle." 

Then,  to  the  others,  as  Myrtle,  sulking,  left 
the  room: 

"I  can  stand  to  see  that  skirt  die  if  necessary. 
But  I  won't  help  murder  it." 

"But,  Mrs.  Buck,"  protested  Spalding,  al 
most  tearfully,  "you've  got  to  exhibit  that  skirt. 
You've  got  to!" 

Emma  shook  a  sorrowing  head. 

"That  wouldn't  be  an  exhibition,  Billy.  It 
would  be  an  expose" 

Spalding  clapped  a  desperate  hand  to  his  bald 
head. 

[170] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

"If  only  I  had  Julian  Eltinge's  shape,  I'd 
wear  it  to  the  show  for  you  myself." 

"That's  all  it  needs  now,"  retorted  Emma 
grimly. 

Whereupon,  Grace  Gait  spoke  up  in  her 
clear,  decisive  voice. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  said  quietly.  "I'm  go 
ing  to  wear  that  skirt  at  the  fashion  show." 

"You !"  cried  the  three,  like  a  trained  trio. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Grace  Gait,  coolly. 
Then:  "No;  don't  tell  me  why  not.  I  won't 
listen." 

But  Emma,  equally  cool,  would  have  none 
of  it. 

"It's  impossible,  dear.  You're  an  angel  to 
want  to  help  me.  But  you  must  know  it's  quite 
out  of  the  question." 

"It's  nothing  of  the  kind.  This  skirt  isn't 
merely  a  fad.  It  has  a  fortune  in  it.  I'm  busi 
ness  woman  enough  to  know  that.  You've  got 
to  let  me  do  it.  It  isn't  only  for  yourself.  It's 
for  T.  A.  and  for  the  future  of  the  firm." 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  allow  you  to  stand  up 
before  all  those  people?" 

"Why  not  ?  I  don't  know  them.  They  don't 
know  me.  I  can  make  them  get  the  idea  in 

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EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

that  skirt.  And  I'm  going  to  do  it.  You  don't 
object  to  me  on  the  same  grounds  that  you  did 
to  Myrtle,  do  you?" 

"You!"  burst  from  the  admiring  Spalding. 
"Say,  you'd  make  a  red-flannel  petticoat  look 
like  crepe  de  Chine  and  lace." 

"There!"  said  Grace,  triumphant.  "That 
settles  it!"  And  she  was  off  down  the  hall. 
They  stood  a  moment  in  stunned  silence.  Then : 

"But  Jock!"  protested  Emma,  following  her. 
"What  will  Jock  say?  Grace!  Grace  dear! 
I  can't  let  you  do  it!  I  can't!" 

"Just  unhook  this  for  me,  will  you?"  replied 
Grace  Gait  sweetly. 

At  two  o'clock,  Jock  McChesney,  returned 
from  his  errand  of  mercy,  burst  into  the  office 
to  find  mother,  step-father,  and  fiancee  all 
flown. 

"Where?  What?"  he  demanded  of  the 
outer  office. 

"Fashion  show!"  chorused  the  office  staff. 

"Might  have  waited  for  me,"  Jock  said  to 
himself,  much  injured.  And  hurled  himself  into 
a  taxi. 

There  was  a  crush  of  motors  and  carriages 
for  a  block  on  all  sides  of  Madison  Square 
[172] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

Garden.  He  had  to  wait  for  what  seemed  an 
interminable  time  at  the  box-office.  Then  he 
began  the  task  of  worming  his  way  through  the 
close-packed  throng  in  the  great  auditorium. 
It  was  a  crowd  such  as  the  great  place  had  not 
seen  since  the  palmy  days  of  the  horse  show. 
It  was  a  crowd  that  sparkled  and  shone  in  silks 
and  feathers  and  furs  and  jewels. 

"Jove,  if  mother  has  half  a  chance  at  this 
gang!"  Jock  told  himself.  "If  only  she  has 
grabbed  some  one  who  can  really  show  that 
skirt!" 

He  was  swept  with  the  crowd  toward  a  high 
platform  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  auditorium. 
All  about  that  platform  stood  hundreds,  close 
packed,  faces  raised  eagerly,  the  better  to  see 
the  slight,  graceful,  girlish  figure  occupying  the 
center  of  the  stage — a  figure  strangely  familiar 
to  Jock's  eyes  in  spite  of  its  quaintly  billowing, 
ante-bellum  garb.  She  was  speaking.  Jock, 
mouth  agape,  eyes  protruding,  ears  straining, 
heard,  as  in  a  daze,  the  sweet,  clear,  charm 
ingly  modulated  voice : 

"The  feature  of  the  skirt,  ladies  and  gentle 
men,  is  that  it  gives  a  fulness  without  weight, 
something  which  the  skirt-maker  has  never  be- 

[173] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

fore  been  able  to  achieve.  This  is  due  to  the 
patent  featherboning  process  invented  by  Mrs. 
T.  A.  Buck,  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom 
Petticoat  Company,  New  York.  Note,  please, 
that  it  has  all  the  advantages  of  our  grandmoth 
er's  hoop-skirt,  but  none  of  its  awkward  fea 
tures.  It  is  graceful" — she  turned  slowly, 
lightly — "it  is  bouffant" — she  twirled  on  her 
toes — "it  is  practical,  serviceable,  elegant.  It 
can  be  made  up  in  any  shade,  in  any  material — 
silk,  lace,  crepe  de  Chine,  charmeuse,  taffeta. 
The  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Com 
pany  is  prepared  to  fill  orders  for  immedi 
ate •" 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  said  Jock  McChes- 
ney  aloud.  And,  again,  heedless  of  the  protest 
ing  "Sh-sh-sh-sh!"  that  his  neighbors  turned 
upon  him,  "Well,  I'll— be— darned!" 

A  hand  twitched  his  coat  sleeve.  He  turned, 
still  dazed.  His  mother,  very  pink-cheeked, 
very  bright-eyed,  pulled  him  through  the 
throng.  As  they  reached  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  there  came  a  great  burst  of  applause, 
a  buzz  of  conversation,  the  turning,  shifting, 
nodding,  staccato  movements  which  mean  ap 
proval  in  a  mass  of  people. 

[174] 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR!" 

"What  the  dickens!  How!"  stammered 
Jock.  "When— did  she— did  she " 

Emma,  half  smiling,  half  tearful,  raised  a 
protesting  hand. 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me,  dear.  And 
don't  hate  me  for  it.  I  tried  to  tell  her  not  to, 
but  she  insisted.  And,  Jock,  she's  done  it,  I  tell 
you!  She's  done  it!  They  love  the  skirt! 
Listen  to  'em!" 

"Don't  want  to,"  said  Jock.  "Lead  me  to 
her." 

"Angry,  dear!" 

"Me?  No!  I'm— I'm  proud  of  her!  She 
hasn't  only  brains  and  looks,  that  little  girl; 
she's  got  nerve — the  real  kind!  Gee,  how  did 
I  ever  have  the  gall  to  ask  her  to  marry  me!" 

Together  they  sped  toward  the  door  that  led 
to  the  dressing-rooms.  Buck,  his  fine  eyes  more 
luminous  than  ever  as  he  looked  at  this  wonder- 
wife  of  his,  met  them  at  the  entrance. 

"She's  waiting  for  you,  Jock,"  he  said,  smil 
ing.  Jock  took  the  steps  in  one  leap. 

"Well,  T.  A.?"  said  Emma. 

"Well,  Emma?"  said  T.  A. 

Which  burst  of  eloquence  was  interrupted 
abruptly  by  a  short,  squat,  dark  man,  who 

[175] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

seized  Emma's  hand  in  his  left  and  Buck's  in 
his  right,  and  pumped  them  up  and  down  vig 
orously.  It  was  that  volatile,  voluble  person 
known  to  the  skirt  trade  as  Abel  I.  Fromkin,  of 
the  'Tromkin  Form-fit  Skirt.  It  Clings !" 

"I'm  looking  everywhere  for  you!"  he 
panted.  Then,  his  shrewd  little  eyes  narrow 
ing,  "You  want  to  talk  business?" 

"Not  here,"  said  Buck  abruptly. 

"Sure — here,"  insisted  Fromkin.  "Say, 
that's  me.  When  I  got  a  thing  on  my  mind,  I 
like  to  settle  it.  How  much  you  take  for  the 
rights  to  that  skirt?" 

"Take  for  it!"  exclaimed  Emma,  in  the  tone 
a  mother  would  use  to  one  who  has  suggested 
taking  a  beloved  child  from  her. 

"Now  wait  a  minute.  Don't  get  mad.  You 
ain't  started  that  skirt  right.  It  should  have 
been  advertised.  It's  too  much  of  a  shock. 
You'll  see.  They  won't  buy.  They're  afraid 
of  it.  I'll  take  it  off  your  hands  and  push  it 
right,  see?  I  offer  you  forty  thousand  for  the 
rights  to  make  that  skirt  and  advertise  it  as  the 
Tromkin  Full-flounce  Skirt.  It  Flares !'  " 

Emma  smiled. 

"How  much?"  she  asked  quizzically. 


1» 


"HOOPS,  MY  DEAR! 

Abel  I.  Fromkin  gulped. 

"Fifty  thousand,"  he  said. 

"Fifty  thousand,"  repeated  Emma  quietly, 
and  looked  at  Buck.  "Thanks,  Mr.  Fromkin! 
I  know,  now,  that  if  it's  worth  fifty  thousand 
to-you  to-day  as  the  'Fromkin  Full-flounce  Skirt. 
It  Flares!5  then  it's  worth  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  to  us  as  the  T.  A.  Buck  Balloon- 
Petticoat.  It  Billows !! 

And  it  was. 


M  n 


[177] 


VI 

SISTERS    UNDER   THEIR    SKIN 

WOMEN  who  know  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  a  pay  envelope  do  not  speak  of  girls 
who  work  as  Working  Girls.  Neither  do  they 
use  the  term  Laboring  Class,  as  one  would 
speak  of  a  distinct  and  separate  race,  like  the 
Ethiopian. 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  was  no  exception  to 
this  rule.  Her  fifteen  years  of  man-size  work 
for  a  man-size  salary  in  the  employ  of  the  T.  A. 
Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat  Company,  New 
York,  precluded  that.  In  those  days,  she  had 
been  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  known  from 
coast  to  coast  as  the  most  successful  traveling 
saleswoman  in  the  business.  It  was  due  to  her 
that  no  feminine  clothes-closet  was  complete 
without  a  Featherloom  dangling  from  one  hook. 
During  those  fifteen  years  she  had  educated  her 
son,  Jock  McChesney,  and  made  a  man  of  him; 
she  had  worked,  fought,  saved,  triumphed, 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

smiled  under  hardship;  and  she  had  acquired  a 
broad  and  deep  knowledge  of  those  fascinating 
and  diversified  subjects  which  we  lump  care 
lessly  under  the  heading  of  Human  Nature. 
She  was  Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  now,  wife  of  the  head 
of  the  firm,  and  partner  in  the  most  successful 
skirt  manufactory  in  the  country.  But  the 
hard-working,  clear-thinking,  sane-acting  hab 
its  of  those  fifteen  years  still  clung. 

Perhaps  this  explained  why  every  machine- 
girl  in  the  big,  bright  shop  back  of  the  offices 
raised  adoring  eyes  when  Emma  entered  the 
workroom.  Italian,  German,  Hungarian,  Rus 
sian — they  lifted  their  faces  toward  this  source 
of  love  and  sympathetic  understanding  as  nat 
urally  as  a  plant  turns  its  leaves  toward  the 
sun.  They  glowed  under  her  praise ;  they  con 
fided  to  her  their  troubles;  they  came  to  her 
with  their  joys — and  they  copied  her  clothes. 

This  last  caused  her  some  uneasiness.  When 
Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  wore  blue  serge,  an  epidemic 
of  blue  serge  broke  out  in  the  workroom.  Did 
Emma's  spring  hat  flaunt  flowers,  the  elevators, 
at  closing  time,  looked  like  gardens  abloom.  If 
she  appeared  on  Monday  morning  in  severely 
tailored  white-linen  blouse,  the  shop  on  Tues- 
[179] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

day  was  a  Boston  seminary  in  its  starched  prim 
ness. 

"It  worries  me,"  Emma  told  her  husband- 
partner.'  "I  can't  help  thinking  of  the  story 
of  the  girl  and  the  pet  chameleon.  What 
would  happen  if  I  were  to  forget  myself  some 
day  and  come  down  to  work  in  black  velvet  and 
pearls?" 

"They'd  manage  it  somehow,"  Buck  assured 
her.  "I  don't  know  just  how;  but  I'm  sure  that 
twenty-four  hours  later  our  shop  would  look 
like  a  Buckingham  drawing-room  when  the 
court  is  in  mourning." 

Emma  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  their  in 
genuity,  at  their  almost  uncanny  clothes-instinct. 
Their  cheap  skirts  hung  and  fitted  with  an  art 
as  perfect  as  that  of  a  Fifty-seventh  Street  mo 
diste;  their  blouses,  in  some  miraculous  way, 
were  of  to-day's  style,  down  to  the  last  detail 
of  cuff  or  collar  or  stitching;  their  hats  were  of 
the  shape  that  the  season  demanded,  set  at  the 
angle  that  the  season  approved,  and  finished 
with  just  that  repression  of  decoration  which  is 
known  as  "single  trimming."  They  wore  their 
clothes  with  a  chic  that  would  make  the  far- 
famed  Parisian  ouvriere  look  dowdy  and  down 
[180] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

at  heel  in  comparison.  Upper  Fifth  Avenue, 
during  the  shopping  or  tea-hour,  has  been  sung, 
painted,  vaunted,  boasted.  Its  furs  and  milli 
nery,  its  eyes  and  figure,  its  complexion  and  an 
kles  have  flashed  out  at  us  from  ten  thousand 
magazine  covers,  have  been  adjectived  in  reams 
of  Sunday-supplement  stories.  Who  will  pic 
ture  Lower  Fifth  Avenue  between  five  and  six, 
when  New  York's  unsung  beauties  pour  into  the 
streets  from  a  thousand  loft-buildings?  Theirs 
is  no  mere  empty  pink-and-white  prettiness. 
Poverty  can  make  prettiness  almost  poignantly 
lovely,  for  it  works  with  a  scalpel.  Your  Twen 
ty-sixth  Street  beauty  has  a  certain  wistful  ap 
peal  that  your  Forty-sixth  Street  beauty  lacks; 
her  very  bravado,  too,  which  falls  just  short  of 
boldness,  adds  a  final  piquant  touch.  In  the 
face  of  the  girl  who  works,  whether  she  be  a 
spindle-legged  errand-girl  or  a  ten-thousand-a- 
year  foreign  buyer,  you  will  find  both  vivacity 
and  depth  of  expression.  What  she  loses  in 
softness  and  bloom  she  gains  in  a  something 
that  peeps  from  her  eyes,  that  lurks  in  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth.  Emma  never  tired  of  study 
ing  them — these  girls  with  their  firm,  slim 
throats,  their  lovely  faces,  their  Oriental  eyes, 
[181] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

and  their  conscious  grace.  Often,  as  she 
looked,  an  unaccountable  mist  of  tears  would 
blur  her  vision. 

So  that  sunny  little  room  whose  door  was 
marked  "MRS.  BUCK"  had  come  to  be  more 
than  a  mere  private  office  for  the  transaction  of 
business.  It  was  a  clearing-house  for  trouble; 
it  was  a  shrine,  a  confessional,  and  a  court  of 
justice.  When  Carmela  Colarossi,  her  face 
swollen  with  weeping,  told  a  story  of  parental 
harshness  grown  unbearable,  Emma  would  put 
aside  business  to  listen,  and  six  o'clock  would 
find  her  seated  in  the  dark  and  smelly  Colarossi 
kitchen,  trying,  with  all  her  tact  and  patience 
and  sympathy,  to  make  home  life  possible 
again  for  the  flashing-eyed  Carmela.  When 
the  deft,  brown  fingers  of  Otti  Markis  became 
clumsy  at  her  machine,  and  her  wage  slumped 
unaccountably  from  sixteen  to  six  dollars  a 
week,  it  was  in  Emma's  quiet  little  office  that  it 
became  clear  why  Otti's  eyes  were  shadowed 
and  why  Otti's  mouth  drooped  so  pathetically. 
Emma  prescribed  a  love  philter  made  up  of 
common  sense,  understanding,  and  world-wis 
dom.  Otti  took  it,  only  half  comprehending, 
but  sure  of  its  power.  In  a  week,  Otti's  eyes 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

were  shadowless,  her  lips  smiling,  her  pay-en 
velope  bulging.  But  it  was  in  Sophy  Kumpf 
that  the  T.  A.  Buck  Company  best  exemplified 
its  policy.  Sophy  Kumpf  had  come  to  Buck's 
"thirty  years  before,  slim,  pink-cheeked,  brown- 
haired.  She  was  a  grandmother  now,  at  forty- 
six,  broad-bosomed,  broad-hipped,  but  still  pink 
of  cheek  and  brown  of  hair.  In  those  thirty 
years  she  had  spent  just  three  away  from 
Buck's.  She  had  brought  her  children  into  the 
world;  she  had  fed  them  and  clothed  them  and 
sent  them  to  school,  had  Sophy,  and  seen  them 
I  married,  and  helped  them  to  bring  their  chil 
dren  into  the  world  in  turn.  In  her  round,  red, 
wholesome  face  shone  a  great  wisdom,  much 
love,  and  that  infinite  understanding  which  is 
born  only  of  bitter  experience.  She  had  come 
to  Buck's  when  old  T.  A.  was  just  beginning  to 
make  Featherlooms  a  national  institution.  She 
had  seen  his  struggles,  his  prosperity;  she  had 
grieved  at  his  death;  she  had  watched  young 
T.  A.  take  the  reins  in  his  unaccustomed  hands, 
and  she  had  gloried  in  Emma  McChesney's  rise 
from  office  to  salesroom,  from  salesroom  to 
road,  from  road  to  private  office  and  recog 
nized  authority.  Sophy  had  left  her  early  work 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

far  behind.  She  had  her  own  desk  now  in  the 
busy  workshop,  and  it  was  she  who  allotted  the 
piece-work,  marked  it  in  her  much-thumbed 
ledger — that  powerful  ledger  which,  at  the 
week's  end,  decided  just  how  plump  or  thin  each 
pay-envelope  would  be.  So  the  shop  and  of 
fice  at  T.  A.  Buck's  were  bound  together  by 
many  ties  of  affection  and  sympathy  and  loy 
alty;  and  these  bonds  were  strongest  where,  at 
one  end,  they  touched  Emma  McChesney  Buck, 
and,  at  the  other,  faithful  Sophy  Kumpf.  Each 
a  triumphant  example  of  Woman  in  Business. 
It  was  at  this  comfortable  stage  of  Feather- 
loom  affairs  that  the  Movement  struck  the  T. 
A.  Buck  Company.  Emma  McChesney  Buck 
had  never  mingled  much  in  movements.  Not 
that  she  lacked  sympathy  with  them ;  she  often 
approved  of  them,  heart  and  soul.  But  she 
had  been  heard  to  say  that  the  Movers  got  on 
her  nerves.  Those  well-dressed,  glib,  staccato 
ladies  who  spoke  with  such  ease  from  platforms 
and  whose  pictures  stared  out  at  one  from  the 
woman's  page  failed,  somehow,  to  convince  her. 
When  Emma  approved  a  new  movement,  it  was 
generally  in  spite  of  them,  never  because  of 
them.  She  was  brazenly  unapologetic  when  she 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

said  that  she  would  rather  listen  to  ten  minutes 
of  Sophy  Kumpf's  world-wisdom  than  to  an 
hour's  talk  by  the  most  magnetic  and  silken- 
clad  spellbinder  in  any  cause.  For  fifteen  busi 
ness  years,  in  the  office,  on  the  road,  and  in  the 
thriving  workshop,  Emma  McChesney  had  met 
working  women  galore.  Women  in  offices, 
women  in  stores,  women  in  hotels — chamber 
maids,  clerks,  buyers,  waitresses,  actresses  in 
road  companies,  women  demonstrators,  occa 
sional  traveling  saleswomen,  women  in  facto 
ries,  scrubwomen,  stenographers,  models — 
every  grade,  type  and  variety  of  working 
woman,  trained  and  untrained.  She  never 
missed  a  chance  to  talk  with  them.  She  never 
failed  to  learn  from  them.  She  had  been  one 
of  them,  and  still  was.  She  was  in  the  position 
of  one  who  is  on  the  inside,  looking  out.  Those 
other  women  urging  this  cause  or  that  were  on 
the  outside,  striving  to  peer  in. 

The  Movement  struck  T.  A.  Buck's  at  eleven 
o'clock  Monday  morning.  Eleven  o'clock 
Monday  morning  in  the  middle  of  a  busy  fall 
season  is  not  a  propitious  moment  for  idle  chit 
chat.  The  three  women  who  stepped  out  of 
the  lift  at  the  Buck  Company's  floor  looked 
[185] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

very  much  out  of  place  in  that  hummingly  busy 
establishment  and  appeared,  on  the  surface, 
at  least,  very  chit-chatty  indeed.  So  much  so, 
that  T.  A.  Buck,  glancing  up  from  the  cards 
which  had  preceded  them,  had  difficulty  in  re 
pressing  a  frown  of  annoyance.  T.  A.  Buck, 
during  his  college-days,  and  for  a  lamentably 
long  time  after,  had  been  known  as  "Beau" 
Buck,  because  of  his  faultless  clothes  and  his 
charming  manner.  His  eyes  had  something  to 
do  with  it,  too,  no  doubt.  He  had  lived  down 
the  title  by  sheer  force  of  business  ability.  No 
one  thought  of  using  the  nickname  now,  though 
the  clothes,  the  manner,  and  the  eyes  were  the 
same.  At  the  entrance  of  the  three  women,  he 
had  been  engrossed  in  the  difficult  task  of  sell 
ing  a  fall  line  to  Mannie  Nussbaum,  of  Port 
land,  Oregon.  Mannie  was  what  is  known  as 
a  temperamental  buyer.  He  couldn't  be 
forced;  he  couldn't  be  coaxed;  he  couldn't  be 
led.  But  when  he  liked  a  line  he  bought  like 
mad,  never  cancelled,  and  T.  A.  Buck  had  just 
got  him  going.  It  spoke  volumes  for  his  self- 
control  that  he  could  advance  toward  the  wait 
ing  three,  his  manner  correct,  his  expression 
bland. 

[186] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

"I  am  Mr.  Buck,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Buck  is 
very  much  engaged.  I  understand  your  visit 
has  something  to  do  with  the  girls  in  the  shop. 
I'm  sure  our  manager  will  be  able  to  answer 
any  questions " 

The  eldest  women  raised  a  protesting,  white- 
gloved  hand. 

"Oh,  no — no,  indeed!  We  must  see  Mrs. 
Buck."  She  spoke  in  the  crisp,  decisive  plat 
form-tones  of  one  who  is  often  addressed  as 
"Madam  Chairman." 

Buck  took  a  firmer  grip  on  his  self-control. 

"I'm   sorry;   Mrs.   Buck  is   in   the   cutting- 


room." 


"We'll  wait,"  said  the  lady,  brightly.  She 
stepped  back  a  pace.  "This  is  Miss  Susan  H. 
Croft" — indicating  a  rather  sparse  person  of 
very  certain  years — "But  I  need  scarcely  intro 
duce  her." 

"Scarcely,"  murmured  Buck,  and  wondered 
why. 

"This  is  my  daughter,  Miss  Gladys  Orton- 
Wells." 

Buck  found  himself  wondering  why  this  slim, 
negative  creature  should  have  such  sad  eyes. 
There  came  an  impatient  snort  from  Mannie 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Nussbaum.     Buck  waved  a  hasty  hand  in  the 
direction  of  Emma's  office. 

"If  you'll  wait  there,  I'll  send  in  to  Mrs. 
Buck." 

The  three  turned  toward  Emma's  bright  lit 
tle  office.  Buck  scribbled  a  hasty  word  on  one 
of  the  cards. 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  was  leaning  over 
the  great  cutting-table,  shears  in  hand.  It 
might  almost  be  said  that  she  sprawled.  Her 
eyes  were  very  bright,  and  her  cheeks  were  very 
pink.  Across  the  table  stood  a  designer  and 
two  cutters,  and  they  were  watching  Emma  with 
an  intentness  as  flattering  as  it  was  sincere. 
They  were  looking  not  only  at  cloth  but  at  an 
idea. 

"Get  that?"  asked  Emma  crisply,  and  tapped 
the  pattern  spread  before  her  with  the  point  of 
her  shears.  "That  gives  you  the  fulness  with 
out  bunching,  d'you  see?" 

"Sure,"  assented  Koritz,  head  designer;  "but 
when  you  get  it  cut  you'll  find  this  piece  is 
wasted,  ain't  it?"  He  marked  out  a  triangular 
section  of  cloth  with  one  expert  forefinger. 

"No;  that  works  into  the  ruffle,"  explained 
Emma.    "Here,  I'll  cut  it.    Then  you'll  see." 
[188] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

She  grasped  the  shears  firmly  in  her  right 
hand,  smoothed  the  cloth  spread  before  her 
with  a  nervous  little  pat  of  her  left,  pushed  her 
bright  hair  back  from  her  forehead,  and  pre 
pared  to  cut.  At  which  critical  moment  there 
entered  Annie,  the  errand-girl,  with  the  three 
bits  of  white  pasteboard. 

Emma  glanced  down  at  them  and  waved 
Annie  away. 

"Can't  see  them.     Busy." 

Annie  stood  her  ground. 

uMr.  Buck  said  you'd  see  'em.  They're 
waiting." 

Emma  picked  up  one  of  the  cards.  On  it 
Buck  had  scribbled  a  single  word:  "Movers." 

Mrs.  T.  A.  Buck  smiled.  A  little  malicious 
gleam  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Show  'em  in  here,  Annie,"  she  commanded, 
with  a  wave  of  the  huge  shears.  "I'll  teach  'em 
to  interrupt  me  when  I've  got  my  hands  in  the 
bluing-water." 

She  bent  over  the  table  again,  measuring  with 
her  keen  eye.  When  the  three  were  ushered  in 
a  moment  later,  she  looked  up  briefly  and  nod 
ded,  then  bent  over  the  table  again.  But  in 
that  brief  moment  she  had  the  three  marked, 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

indexed  and  pigeonholed.  If  one  could  have 
looked  into  that  lightning  mind  of  hers,  one 
would  have  found  something  like  this : 

"Hmm!  What  Ida  Tarbell  calls  'Restless 
women.'  Money,  and  always  have  had  it. 
Those  hats  were  born  in  one  of  those  exclusive 
little  shops  off  the  Avenue.  Rich  but  somber. 
They  think  they're  advanced,  but  they  still  re 
sent  the  triumph  of  the  motor-car  over  the 
horse.  That  girl  can't  call  her  soul  her  own. 
Good  eyes,  but  too  sad.  He  probably  didn't 
suit  mother." 

What  she  said  was: 

"Howdy-do.  We're  just  bringing  a  new 
skirt  into  the  world.  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  be  in  at  the  birth." 

"How  very  interesting!"  chirped  the  two 
older  women.  The  girl  said  nothing,  but  a 
look  of  anticipation  brightened  her  eyes.  It 
deepened  and  glowed  as  Emma  McChesney 
Buck  bent  to  her  task  and  the  great  jaws  of  the 
shears  opened  and  shut  on  the  virgin  cloth. 
Six  pairs  of  eyes  followed  the  fascinating  steel 
before  which  the  cloth  rippled  and  fell  away,  as 
water  is  cleft  by  the  prow  of  a  stanch  little 
boat.  Around  the  curves  went  the  shears, 
[190] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

guided  by  Emma's  firm  white  hands,  snipping, 
slashing,  doubling  on  itself,  a  very  swashbuck 
ler  of  a  shears. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Emma  at  last,  and 
dropped  the  shears  on  the  table  with  a  clatter, 
"Put  that  together  and  see  whether  it  makes  a 
skirt  or  not.  Now,  ladies  1" 

The  three  drew  a  long  breath.  It  was  the 
sort  of  sound  that  comes  up  from  the  crowd 
when  a  sky-rocket  has  gone  off  successfully,  with 
a  final  shower  of  stars. 

"Do  you  do  that  often?"  ventured  Mrs.  Or- 
ton-Wells. 

"Often  enough  to  keep  my  hand  in,"  replied 
Emma,  and  led  the  way  to  her  office. 

The  three  followed  in  silence.  They  were 
strangely  silent,  too,  as  they  seated  themselves 
around  Emma  Buck's  desk.  Curiously  enough, 
it  was  the  subdued  Miss  Orton-Wells  who  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"I'll  never  rest,"  she  said,  "until  I  see  that 
skirt  finished  and  actually  ready  to  wear." 

She  smiled  at  Emma.  When  she  did  that, 
you  saw  that  Miss  Orton-Wells  had  her  charm. 
Emma  smiled  back,  and  patted  the  girl's  hand 
just  once.  At  that  there  came  a  look  into  Miss 

[191] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Orton-Wells'  eyes,  and  you  saw  that  most  de 
cidedly  she  had  her  charm. 

Up  spoke  Mrs.  Orton- Wells. 

"Gladys  is  such  an  enthusiast!  That's  really 
her  reason  for  being  here.  Gladys  is  very  much 
interested  in  working  girls.  In  fact,  we  are  all, 
as  you  probably  know,  intensely  interested  in 
the  working  woman." 

"Thank  you !"  said  Emma  McChesney  Buck. 
"That's  very  kind.  We  working  women  are 
very  grateful  to  you." 

"We!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Orton-Wells  and 
Miss  Susan  Croft  blankly,  and  in  perfect  time. 

Emma  smiled  sweetly. 

"Surely  you'll    admit   that   I'm   a   working 


woman." 


Miss  Susan  H.  Croft  was  not  a  person  to  be 
trifled  with.  She  elucidated  acidly. 

"We  mean  women  who  work  with  their 
hands." 

"By  what  power  do  you  think  those  shears 
were  moved  across  the  cutting-table?  We 
don't  cut  our  patterns  with  an  ouija-board." 

Mrs.      Orton-Wells      rustled     protestingly. 
"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Buck,  you  know,  we  mean 
women  of  the  Laboring  Class." 
[192] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

"I'm  in  this  place  of  business  from  nine  to 
five,  Monday  to  Saturday,  inclusive.  If  that 
doesn't  make  me  a  member  of  the  laboring 
class  I  don't  want  to  belong." 

It  was  here  that  Mrs.  Orton-Wells  showed 
herself  a  woman  not  to  be  trifled  with.  She 
moved  forward  to  the  edge  of  her  chair,  fixed 
Emma  Buck  with  determined  eyes,  and  swept 
into  midstream,  sails  spread. 

"Don't  be  frivolous,  Mrs.  Buck.  We  are 
here  on  a  serious  errand.  It  ought  to  interest 
you  vitally  because  of  the  position  you  occupy 
in  the  world  of  business.  We  are  launching  a 
campaign  against  the  extravagant,  ridiculous, 
and  oftentimes  indecent  dress  of  the  working 
girl,  with  especial  reference  to  the  girl  who 
works  in  garment  factories.  They  squander 
their  earnings  in  costumes  absurdly  unfitted  to 
their  station  in  life.  Our  plan  is  to  influence 
them  in  the  direction  of  neatness,  modesty,  and 
economy  in  dress.  At  present  each  tries  to 
outdo  the  other  in  style  and  variety  of  costume. 
Their  shoes  are  high-heeled,  cloth-topped,  their 
blouses  lacy  and  collarless,  their  hats  absurd. 
We  propose  a  costume  which  shall  be  neat,  be 
coming,  and  appropriate.  Not  exactly  a  uni- 

[193] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

form,  perhaps,  but  something  with  a  fixed  idea 
in  cut,  color,  and  style.  A  corps  of  twelve 
young  ladies  belonging  to  our  best  families  has 
been  chosen  to  speak  to  the  shop  girls  at  noon 
meetings  on  the  subject  of  good  taste,  health, 
and  morality  in  women's  dress.  My  daughter 
Gladys  is  one  of  them.  In  this  way,  we  hope 
to  convince  them  that  simplicity,  and  practical 
ity,  and  neatness  are  the  only  proper  notes  in 
the  costume  of  the  working  girl.  Occupying  as 
you  do  a  position  unique  in  the  business  world, 
Mrs.  Buck,  we  expect  much  from  your  coopera 
tion  with  us  in  this  cause. " 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  had  been  gazing  at 
Mrs.  Orton- Wells  with  an  intentness  as  flatter 
ing  as  it  was  unfeigned.  But  at  the  close  of 
Mrs.  Orton-Wells'  speech  she  was  strangely 
silent.  She  glanced  down  at  her  shoes.  Now, 
Emma  McChesney  Buck  had  a  weakness  for 
smart  shoes  which  her  slim,  well-arched  foot 
excused.  Hers  were  what  might  be  called  in 
telligent-looking  feet.  There  was  nothing  thick, 
nothing  clumsy,  nothing  awkward  about  them. 
And  Emma  treated  them  with  the  consideration 
they  deserved.  They  were  shod  now,  in  a  pair 
of  slim,  aristocratic,  and  modish  ties  above 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

which  the  grateful  eye  caught  a  flashing  glimpse 
of  black-silk  stocking.  Then  her  eye  traveled 
up  her  smartly  tailored  skirt,  up  the  bodice  of 
that  well-made  and  becoming  costume  until  her 
glance  rested  on  her  own  shoulder  and  paused. 
Then  she  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Orton-Wells.  The 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Orton-Wells,  Miss  Susan  H. 
Croft,  and  Miss  Gladys  Orton-Wells  had,  by 
some  strange  power  of  magnetism,  followed 
the  path  of  Emma's  eyes.  They  finished  just 
one  second  behind  her,  so  that  when  she  raised 
her  eyes  it  was  to  encounter  theirs. 

"I  have  explained,"  retorted  Mrs.  Orton- 
Wells,  tartly,  in  reply  to  nothing,  seemingly, 
"that  our  problem  is  with  the  factory  girl.  She 
represents  a  distinct  and  separate  class." 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  nodded: 

"I  understand.  Our  girls  are  very  young — 
eighteen,  twenty,  twenty-two.  At  eighteen,  or 
thereabouts,  practical  garments  haven't  the 
strong  appeal  that  you  might  think  they  have." 

"They  should  have,"  insisted  Mrs.  Orton- 
Wells. 

"Maybe,"  said  Emma  Buck  gently.  "But  to 
me  it  seems  just  as  reasonable  to  argue  that  an 
apple  tree  has  no  right  to  wear  pink-and-white 

[195] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

blossoms  in  the  spring,  so  long  as  it  is  going 
to  bear  sober  russets  in  the  autumn." 

Miss  Susan  H.  Croft  rustled  indignantly. 

"Then  you  refuse  to  work  with  us?  You 
will  not  consent  to  Miss  Orton-Wells'  speaking 
to  the  girls  in  your  shop  this  noon?" 

Emma  looked  at  Gladys  Orton-Wells. 
Gladys  was  wearing  black,  and  black  did  not 
become  her.  It  made  her  creamy  skin  sallow. 
Her  suit  was  severely  tailored,  and  her  hat 
was  small  and  harshly  outlined,  and  her  hair 
was  drawn  back  from  her  face.  All  this,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Miss  Orton-Wells  was  of 
the  limp  and  fragile  type,  which  demands  ruf 
fles,  fluffiness,  flowing  lines  and  frou-frou.  Em 
ma's  glance  at  the  suppressed  Gladys  was  as 
fleeting  as  it  was  keen,  but  it  sufficed  to  bring 
her  to  a  decision.  She  pressed  a  buzzer  at  her 
desk. 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  have  Miss  Orton-Wells 
speak  to  the  girls  in  our  shop  this  noon,  and 
as  often  as  she  cares  to  speak.  If  she  can  con 
vince  the  girls  that  a — er — fixed  idea  in  cut, 
color,  and  style  is  the  thing  to  be  adopted  by 
shop-workers  I  am  perfectly  willing  that  they 
be  convinced." 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

Then  to  Annie,  who  appeared  in  answer  to 
the  buzzer, 

"Will  you  tell  Sophy  Kumpf  to  come  here, 
please?" 

Mrs.  Orton-Wells  beamed.  The  somber 
plumes  in  her  correct  hat  bobbed  and  dipped  to 
Emma.  The  austere  Miss  Susan  H.  Croft  un 
bent  in  a  nutcracker  smile.  Only  Miss  Gladys 
Orton-Wells  remained  silent,  thoughtful,  unen- 
thusiastic.  Her  eyes  were  on  Emma's  face. 

A  heavy,  comfortable  step  sounded  in  the 
hall  outside  the  office  door.  Emma  turned  with 
a  smile  to  the  stout,  motherly,  red-cheeked 
woman  who  entered,  smoothing  her  coarse 
brown  hair  with  work-roughened  fingers. 

Emma  took  one  of  those  calloused  hands  in 
hers. 

"Sophy,  we  need  your  advice.  This  is  Mrs. 
Sophy  Kumpf — Mrs.  Orton-Wells,  Miss  Susan 
H.  Croft" — Sophy  threw  her  a  keen  glance; 
she  knew  that  name — "and  Miss  Orton-Wells." 
Of  the  four,  Sophy  was  the  most  at  ease. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Sophy  Kumpf. 

The  three  bowed,  but  did  not  commit  them 
selves.  Emma,  her  hand  still  on  Sophy's,  elabo 
rated: 

[197] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"Sophy  Kumpf  has  been  with  the  T.  A.  Buck 
Company  for  thirty  years.  She  could  run  this 
business  single-handed,  if  she  had  to.  She 
knows  any  machine  in  the  shop,  can  cut  a  pat 
tern,  keep  books,  run  the  entire  plant  if  neces 
sary.  If  there's  anything  about  petticoats  that 
Sophy  doesn't  know,  it's  because  it  hasn't  been 
invented  yet.  Sophy  was  sixteen  when  she  came 
to  Buck's.  I've  heard  she  was  the  prettiest  and 
best  dressed  girl  in  the  shop." 

"Oh,  now,  Mrs.  Buck!"  remonstrated  Sophy. 

Emma  tried  to  frown  as  she  surveyed  So 
phy's  bright  eyes,  her  rosy  cheeks,  her  broad 
bosom,  her  ample  hips — all  that  made  Sophy 
an  object  to  comfort  and  rest  the  eye. 

"Don't  dispute,  Sophy.  Sophy  has  educated 
her  children,  married  them  off,  and  welcomed 
their  children.  She  thinks  that  excuses  her  for 
having  been  frivolous  and  extravagant  at  six 
teen.  But  we  know  better,  don't  we?  I'm 
using  you  as  a  horrible  example,  Sophy." 

Sophy  turned  affably  to  the  listening  three. 

"Don't  let  her  string  you,"  she  said,  and 
winked  one  knowing  eye. 

Mrs.  Orton- Wells  stiffened.  Miss  Susan  H. 
Croft  congealed.  But  Miss  Gladys  Orton- 
[198] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

Wells  smiled.    And  then  Emma  knew  she  was 
right. 

"Sophy,  who's  the  prettiest  girl  in  our  shop? 
And  the  best  dressed?" 

"Lily  Bernstein,"  Sophy  made  prompt  an 
swer. 

"Send  her  in  to  us,  will  you?  And  give  her 
credit  for  lost  time  when  she  comes  back  to  the 
shop." 

Sophy,  with  a  last  beamingly  good-natured 
smile,  withdrew.  Five  minutes  later,  when  Lily 
Bernstein  entered  the  office,  Sophy  qualified  as 
a  judge  of  beauty.  Lily  Bernstein  was  a  tiger- 
lily — all  browns  and  golds  and  creams,  all  gra- 
ciousness  and  warmth  and  lovely  curves.  As 
she  came  into  the  room,  Gladys  Orton- Wells 
seemed  as  bloodless  and  pale  and  ineffectual  as 
a  white  moth  beside  a  gorgeous  tawny  butter- 
fly. 

Emma  presented  the  girl  as  formally  as  she 
had  Sophy  Kumpf.  And  Lily  Bernstein  smiled 
upon  them,  and  her  teeth  were  as  white  and 
even  as  one  knew  they  would  be  before  she 
smiled.  Lily  had  taken  off  her  shop-apron. 
Her  gown  was  blue  serge,  cheap  in  quality,  flaw 
less  as  to  cut  and  fit,  and  incredibly  becoming. 
[199] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

Above  it,  her  vivid  face  glowed  like  a  golden 
rose. 

"Lily,"  said  Emma,  "Miss  Orton-Wells  is 
going  to  speak  to  the  girls  this  noon.  I  thought 
you  might  help  by  telling  her  whatever  she 
wants  to  know  about  the  girls7  work  and  all 
that,  and  by  making  her  feel  at  home." 

"Well,  sure,"  said  Lily,  and  smiled  again  her 
heart-warming  smile.  "I'd  love  to." 

"Miss  Orton-Wells,"  went  on  Emma 
smoothly,  "wants  to  speak  to  the  girls  about 
clothes." 

Lily  looked  again  at  Miss  Orton-Wells,  and 
she  did  not  mean  to  be  cruel.  Then  she  looked 
quickly  at  Emma,  to  detect  a  possible  joke.  But 
Mrs.  Buck's  face  bore  no  trace  of  a  smile. 

"Clothes!"  repeated  Lily.  And  a  slow  red 
mounted  to  Gladys  Orton-Wells'  pale  face. 
When  Lily  went  out  Sunday  afternoons,  she 
might  have  passed  for  a  millionaire's  daughter 
if  she  hadn't  been  so  well  dressed. 

"Suppose  you  take  Miss  Orton-Wells  into 
the  shop,"  suggested  Emma,  "so  that  she  may 
have  some  idea  of  the  size  and  character  of  our 
family  before  she  speaks  to  it.  How  long  shall 
you  want  to  speak?" 

[200] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

Miss  Orton-Wells  started  nervously,  stam 
mered  a  little,  stopped. 

"Oh,  ten  minutes,"  said  Mrs.  Orton-Wells 
graciously. 

"Five,"  said  Gladys,  quickly,  and  followed 
Lily  Bernstein  into  the  workroom. 

Mrs.  Orton-Wells  and  Miss  Susan  H.  Croft 
gazed  after  them. 

"Rather  attractive,  that  girl,  in  a  coarse 
way,"  mused  Mrs.  Orton-Wells.  "If  only  we 
can  teach  them  to  avoid  the  cheap  and  tawdry. 
If  only  we  can  train  them  to  appreciate  the  finer 
things  in  life.  Of  course,  their  life  is  peculiar. 
Their  problems  are  not  our  problems; 
their " 

"Their  problems  are  just  exactly  our  prob 
lems,"  interrupted  Emma  crisply.  "They  use 
garlic  instead  of  onion,  and  they  don't  bathe 
as  often  as  we  do;  but,  then,  perhaps  we 
wouldn't  either,  if  we  hadn't  tubs  and  showers 
so  handy." 

In  the  shop,  queer  things  were  happening  to 
Gladys  Orton-Wells.  At  her  entrance  into 
the  big  workroom,  one  hundred  pairs  of  eyes 
had  lifted,  dropped,  and,  in  that  one  look,  con 
demned  her  hat,  suit,  blouse,  veil  and  tout  en- 
[201] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

semble.  When  you  are  on  piece-work  you 
squander  very  little  time  gazing  at  uplift  visi 
tors  in  the  wrong  kind  of  clothes. 

Gladys  Orton-Wells  looked  about  the  big, 
bright  workroom.  The  noonday  sun  streamed 
in  from  a  dozen  great  windows.  There 
seemed,  somehow,  to  be  a  look  of  content  and 
capableness  about  those  heads  bent  so  busily 
over  the  stitching. 

"It  looks — pleasant,"  said  Gladys  Orton- 
Wells. 

"It  ain't  bad.  Of  course  it's  hard  sitting  all 
day.  But  I'd  rather  do  that  than  stand  from 
eight  to  six  behind  a  counter.  And  there's  good 
money  in  it." 

Gladys  Orton-Wells  turned  wistful  eyes  on 
friendly  little  Lily  Bernstein. 

"I'd  like  to  earn  money,"  she  said.  "I'd 
like  to  work." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?"  demanded  Lily. 
"Work's  all  the  style  this  year.  They're  all 
doing  it.  Look  at  the  Vanderbilts  and  that 
Morgan  girl,  and  the  whole  crgwd.  These 
days  you  can't  tell  whether  the  girl  at  the  ma 
chine  next  to  you  lives  in  the  Bronx  or  on  Fifth 
Avenue." 

[202] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  earn  your  own 
clothes." 

"Believe  me,"  laughed  Lily  Bernstein,  "it 
ain't  so  wonderful  when  you've  had  to  do  it  all 
your  life." 

She  studied  the  pale  girl  before  her  with 
brows  thoughtfully  knit.  Lily  had  met  too 
many  uplifters  to  be  in  awe  of  them.  Besides, 
a  certain  warm-hearted  friendliness  was  hers 
for  every  one  she  met.  So,  like  the  child  she 
was,  she  spoke  what  was  in  her  mind: 

"Say,  listen,  dearie.  I  wouldn't  wear  black 
if  I  was  you.  And  that  plain  stuff — it  don't 
suit  you.  I'm  like  that,  too.  There's  some 
things  I  can  wear  and  others  I  look  fierce  in. 
I'd  like  you  in  one  of  them  big  flat  hats  and  a 
full  skirt  like  you  see  in  the  ads,  with  lots  of 
ribbons  and  tag  ends  and  bows  on  it.  D'you 
know  what  I  mean?" 

"My  mother  was  a  Van  Cleve,"  said  Gladys 
drearily,  as  though  that  explained  everything. 
So  it  might  have,  to  any  but  a  Lily  Bernstein. 

Lily  didn't  know  what  a  Van  Cleve  was,  but 
she  sensed  it  as  a  drawback. 

"Don't  you  care.  Everybody's  folks  have 
got  something  the  matter  with  'em.  Especially 
[203] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

when  you're  a  girl.     But  if  I  was  you,  I'd  go 
right  ahead  and  do  what  I  wanted  to." 

In  the  doorway  at  the  far  end  of  the  shop 
appeared  Emma  with  her  two  visitors.  Mrs. 
Prton-Wells  stopped  and  said  something  to  a 
girl  at  a  machine,  and  her  very  posture  and 
smile  reeked  of  an  offensive  kindliness,  a  con 
descending  patronage. 

Gladys  Orton-Wells  did  a  strange  thing. 
She  saw  her  mother  coming  toward  her.  She 
put  one  hand  on  Lily  Bernstein's  arm  and  she 
spoke  hurriedly  and  in  a  little  gasping  voice. 

"Listen!  Would  you — would  you  marry  a 
man  who  hadn't  any  money  to  speak  of,  and  no 
sort  of  family,  if  you  loved  him,  even  if  your 
mother  wouldn't — wouldn't " 

" Would  I !  Say,  you  go  out  to-morrow  morn 
ing  and  buy  yourself  one  of  them  floppy  hats 
and  a  lace  waist  over  flesh-colored  chiffon  and 
get  married  in  it.  Don't  get  it  white,  with  your 
coloring.  Get  it  kind  of  cream.  You're  so 
grand  and  thin,  this  year's  things  will  look 
lovely  on  you." 

A  bell  shrilled  somewhere  in  the  shop.      A 
hundred  machines  stopped  their  whirring.      A 
hundred  heads  came  up  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
[204] 


SISTERS  UNDER  THEIR  SKIN 

Chairs  were  pushed  back,  aprons  unbuttoned. 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  stepped  forward 
and  raised  a  hand  for  attention.  The  noise  of 
a  hundred  tongues  was  stilled. 

"Girls,  Miss  Gladys  Orton-Wells  is  going 
to  speak  to  you  for  five  minutes  on  the  subject 
of  dress.  Will  you  give  her  your  attention, 
please.  The  five  minutes  will  be  added  to  your 
noon  hour." 

Gladys  Orton-Wells  looked  down  at  her 
hands  for  one  terrified  moment,  then  she 
threw  her  head  up  bravely.  There  was  no  lack 
of  color  in  her  cheeks  now.  She  stepped  to 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"What  I  have  to  say  won't  take  five  min 
utes,"  she  said,  in  her  clear,  well-bred  tones. 
"You  all  dress  so  smartly,  and  I'm  such  a  dowd, 
I  just  want  to  ask  you  whether  you  think  I 
ought  to  get  blue,  or  that  new  shade  of  gray 
for  a  traveling-suit." 

And  the  shop,  hardened  to  the  eccentricities 
of  noonday  speakers,  made  composed  and 
ready  answer: 

"Oh,  get  blue;  it's  always  good." 

"Thank  you,"  laughed  Gladys  Orton-Wells, 
and  was  off  down  the  hall  and  away,  with  never 
[205] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

a  backward  glance  at  her  gasping  and  outraged 
mother. 

Emma  McChesney  Buck  took  Lily  Bern 
stein's  soft  cheek  between  thumb  and  forefinger 
and  pinched  it  ever  so  fondly. 

"I  knew  you'd  do  it,  Judy  O'Grady,"  she 
said. 

"Judy  O'Who?" 

"O'Grady — a  lady  famous  in  history." 

"Oh,  now,  quit  your  kiddin',  Mrs.  Buck!" 
said  Lily  Bernstein. 


[206] 


VII 
AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

IF  you  listen  long  enough,  and  earnestly 
enough,  and  with  ear  sufficiently  attuned 
to  the  music  of  this  sphere  there  will  come  to 
you  this  reward:  The  violins  and  oboes  and 
'cellos  and  brasses  of  humanity  which  seemed 
all  at  variance  with  each  other  will  unite  as 
one  instrument;  seeming  discords  and  disson 
ances  will  blend  into  harmony,  and  the  wail  and 
blare  and  thrum  of  humanity's  orchestra  will 
sound  in  your  ear  the  sublime  melody  of  that 
great  symphony  called  Life. 

In  her  sunny  little  private  office  on  the 
twelfth  floor  of  the  great  loft-building  that 
housed  the  T.  A.  Buck  Company,  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  Buck  sat  listening  to  the  street-sounds 
that  were  wafted  to  her,  mellowed  by  height 
and  distance.  The  noises,  taken  separately, 
were  the  nerve-racking  sounds  common  to  a 
busy  down-town  New  York  cross-street.  By 
[207] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

the  time  they  reached  the  little  office  on  the 
twelfth  floor,  they  were  softened,  mellowed,  de- 
brutalized,  welded  into  a  weird  choirlike  chant 
first  high,  then  low,  rising,  swelling,  dying  away, 
rising  again  to  a  dull  roar,  with  now  and  then 
vast  undertones  like  the  rumbling  of  a  cathedral 
pipe-organ.  Emma  knew  that  the  high,  clear 
tenor  note  was  the  shrill  cry  of  the  lame 
"newsie"  at  the  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue  and 
Twenty-sixth  Street.  Those  deep,  thunderous 
bass  notes  were  the  combined  reverberation  of 
nearby  "L"  trains,  distant  subway  and  clanging 
surface  cars.  That  sharp  staccato  was  a  motor- 
man  clanging  his  bell  of  warning.  These  things 
she  knew.  But  she  liked,  nevertheless,  to  shut 
her  eyes  for  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  her  busy 
day  and  listen  to  the  chant  of  the  city  as  it 
came  up  to  her,  subdued,  softened,  strangely 
beautified.  The  sound  saddened  even  while  it 
filled  her  with  a  certain  exaltation.  We  have 
no  one  word  for  that  sensation.  The  German 
(there's  a  language!)  has  it — Weltschmerz. 

As  distance  softened  the  harsh  sounds  to  her 
ears,  so  time  and  experience  had  given  her  a 
perspective  on  life  itself.  She  saw  it,  not  as  a 
series  of  incidents,  pleasant  and  unpleasant,  but 

[208] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

as  a  great  universal  scheme  too  mighty  to  com 
prehend — a  scheme  that  always  worked  itself 
out  in  some  miraculous  way. 

She  had  had  a  singularly  full  life,  had  Emma 
McChesney  Buck.  A  life  replete  with  work, 
leavened  by  sorrows,  sweetened  with  happiness. 
These  ingredients  make  for  tolerance.  She 
saw,  for  example,  how  the  capable,  modern 
staff  in  the  main  business  office  had  forged 
ahead  of  old  Pop  Henderson.  Pop  Henderson 
had  been  head  bookkeeper  for  years.  But  the 
pen  in  his  trembling  hand  made  queer  spidery 
marks  in  the  ledgers  now,  and  his  figure  seven 
was  very  likely  to  look  like  a  drunken  letter 
"z."  The  great  bulk  of  his  work  was  done 
by  the  capable,  comely  Miss  Kelly  who  could 
juggle  figures  like  a  Cinquevalli.  His  shaking, 
blue-veined  yellow  hand  was  no  match  for 
Miss  Kelly's  cool,  firm  fingers.  But  he  stayed 
on  at  Buck's,  and  no  one  dreamed  of  insulting 
him  with  talk  of  a  pension,  least  of  all  Emma. 
She  saw  the  work-worn  pathetic  old  man  not 
only  as  a  figure  but  as  a  symbol. 

Jock  McChesney,  very  young,  very  hand 
some,  very  successful,  coming  on  to  New  York 
from  Chicago  to  be  married  in  June,  found 
[209] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

his  mother  wrapped  in  this  contemplative  calm. 
Now,  Emma  McChesney  Buck,  mother  of  an 
about-to-be-married  son,  was  also  surprisingly 
young  and  astonishingly  handsome  and  highly 
successful.  Jock,  in  a  lucid  moment  the  day 
before  his  wedding,  took  occasion  to  comment 
rather  resentfully  on  his  mother's  attitude. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  gloomily,  "that 
for  a  mother  whose  only  son  is  about  to  be 
handed  over  to  what  the  writers  call  the  other 
woman,  you're  pretty  resigned,  not  to  say 
cheerful." 

Emma  glanced  up  at  him  as  he  stood  there, 
so  tall  and  straight  and  altogether  good  to  look 
at,  and  the  glow  of  love  and  pride  in  her  eyes 
belied  the  lightness  of  her  words. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said,  with  mock  seriousness, 
"and  it  worries  me.  I  can't  imagine  why  I  fail 
to  feel  those  pangs  that  mothers  are  supposed 
to  suffer  at  this  time.  I  ought  to  rend  my 
garments  and  beat  my  breast,  but  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  what  a  stunning  girl  Grace  Gait  is, 
and  what  a  brain  she  has,  and  how  lucky  you 
are  to  get  her.  Any  girl — with  the  future  that 
girl  had  in  the  advertising  field — who'll  give  up 
four  thoiftand  a  year  and  her  independence  to 
[210] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

marry  a  man  does  it  for  love,  let  me  tell  you. 
If  anybody  knows  you  better  than  your  mother, 
son,  I'd  hate  to  know  who  it  is.  And  if  any 
body  loves  you  more  than  your  mother — well, 
we  needn't  go  into  that,  because  it  would  have 
to  be  hypothetical,  anyway.  You  see,  Jock, 
I've  loved  you  so  long  and  so  well  that  I  know 
your  faults  as  well  as  your  virtues ;  and  I  love 
you,  not  in  spite  of  them  but  because  of 
them. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  interrupted  Jock,  with 
some  warmth,  "I'm  not  perfect,  but  a  fel 
low " 

"Perfect!  Jock  McChesney,  when  I  think 
of  Grace's  feelings  when  she  discovers  that  you 
never  close  a  closet  door !  When  I  contemplate 
her  emotions  on  hearing  your  howl  at  finding 
one  seed  in  your  orange  juice  at  breakfast! 
When  she  learns  of  your  secret  and  unholy  pas 
sion  for  neckties  that  have  a  dash  of  red  in  'em, 
and  how  you  have  to  be  restrained  by  force 
from " 

With  a  simulated  roar  of  rage,  Jock  Mc 
Chesney  fell  upon  his  mother  with  a  series  of 
bear-hugs  that  left  her  flushed,  panting,  limp, 
but  bright-eyed. 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

It  was  to  her  husband  that  Emma  revealed 
the  real  source  of  her  Spartan  calm.  The  wed 
ding  was  over.  There  had  been  a  quiet  little 
celebration,  after  which  Jock  McChesney  had 
gone  West  with  his  very  lovely  young  wife. 
Emma  had  kissed  her  very  tenderly,  very  so 
berly  after  the  brief  ceremony.  "Mrs.  McChes 
ney,"  she  had  said,  and  her  voice  shook  ever  so 
little;  "Mrs.  Jock  McChesney!"  And  the  new 
Mrs.  McChesney,  a  most  astonishingly  intuitive 
young  woman  indeed,  had  understood. 

T.  A.  Buck,  being  a  man,  puzzled  over  it  a 
little.  That  night,  when  Emma  had  reached 
the  kimono  and  hair-brushing  stage,  he  ven 
tured  to  speak  his  wonderment. 

"D'you  know,  Emma,  you  were  about  the 
calmest  and  most  serene  mother  that  I  ever 
did  see  at  a  son's  wedding.  Of  course  I  didn't 
expect  you  to  have  hysterics,  or  anything  like 
that.  I've  always  said  that,  when  it  came  to 
repose  and  self-control,  you  could  make  the 
German  Empress  look  like  a  hoyden.  But  I  al 
ways  thought  that,  at  such  times,  a  mother 
viewed  her  new  daughter-in-law  as  a  rival,  that 
the  very  sight  of  her  filled  her  with  a  jealous 
rage  like  that  of  a  tigress  whose  cub  is  taken 
[212] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

from  her.  I  must  say  you  were  so  smiling  and 
urbane  that  I  thought  it  was  almost  uncom 
plimentary  to  the  young  couple.  You  didn't 
even  weep,  you  unnatural  woman !" 

Emma,  seated  before  her  dressing-table, 
stopped  brushing  her  hair  and  sat  silent  a 
moment,  looking  down  with  unseeing  eyes  at 
the  brush  in  her  hand. 

"I  know  it,  T.  A.  Would  you  like  to  have 
me  tell  you  why?'* 

He  came  over  to  her  then  and  ran  a  tender 
hand  down  the  length  of  her  bright  hair.  Then 
he  kissed  the  top  of  her  head.  This  satisfac 
tory  performance  he  capped  by  saying: 

"I  think  I  know  why.  It's  because  the  min 
ister  hesitated  a  minute  and  looked  from  you 
to  Grace  and  back  again,  not  knowing  which 
was  the  bride.  The  way  you  looked  in  that 
dress,  Emma,  was  enough  to  reconcile  any 
woman  to  losing  her  entire  family." 

"T.  A.,  you  do  say  the  nicest  things  to  me." 

"like 'cm,  Emma?'1 

"Like  'em?  You  know  perfectly  well  that 
you  never  can  offend  me  by  making  me  com 
pliments  like  that.  I  not  only  like  them;  I 
actually  believe  them!" 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

"That's  because  I  mean  them,  Emma.  Now, 
out  with  that  reason!" 

Emma  stood  up  then  and  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders.  But  she  was  not  looking  at  him. 
She  was  gazing  past  him,  her  eyes  dreamy, 
contemplative. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'll  be  able  to  explain 
to  you  just  how  I  feel  about  it.  I'll  probably 
make  a  mess  of  it.  But  I'll  try.  You  see,  dear, 
it's  just  this  way :  Two  years  ago — a  year  ago, 
even — I  might  have  felt  just  that  sensation 
of  personal  resentment  and  loss.  But  some 
how,  lately,  I've  been  looking  at  life  through 
— how  shall  I  put  it? — through  seven-league 
glasses.  I  used  to  see  life  in  its  relation  to  me 
and  mine.  Now  I  see  it  in  terms  of  my  relation 
to  it.  Do  you  get  me?  I  was  the  soloist,  and 
the  world  my  orchestral  accompaniment.  Late 
ly,  I've  been  content  just  to  step  back  with  the 
other  instruments  and  let  my  little  share  go  to 
make  up  a  more  perfect  whole.  In  those  years, 
long  before  I  met  you,  when  Jock  was  all  I  had 
in  the  world,  I  worked  and  fought  and  saved 
that  he  might  have  the  proper  start,  the  proper 
training,  and  environment.  And  I  did  succeed 
In  giving  him  those  things.  Well,  as  I  looked 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

at  him  there  to-day  I  saw  him,  not  as  my  son, 
my  property  that  was  going  out  of  my  control 
into  the  hands  of  another  woman,  but  as  a  link 
in  the  great  chain  that  I  had  helped  to  forge 
— a  link  as  strong  and  sound  and  perfect  as  I 
could  make  it.  I  saw  him,  not  as  my  boy,  Jock 
McChesney,  but  as  a  unit.  When  I  am  gone  I 
shall  still  live  in  him,  and  he  in  turn  will  live 
in  his  children.  There !  I've  muddled  it — 
haven't  I? — as  I  said  I  would.  But  I  think" — 
And  she  looked  into  her  husband's  glowing 
eyes. — "No;  I'm  sure  you  understand.  And 

when  I  die,  T.  A. " 

"You,  Emma !"  And  he  held  her  close,  and 
then  held  her  off  to  look  at  her  through  quiz 
zical,  appreciative  eyes.  "Why,  girl,  I  can't 
imagine  you  doing  anything  so  passive." 

In  the  busy  year  that  followed,  anyone 
watching  Emma  McChesney  Buck  as  she 
worked  and  played  and  constructed,  and  helped 
others  to  work  and  play  and  construct,  would 
have  agreed  with  T.  A.  Buck.  She  did  not 
seem  a  woman  who  was  looking  at  life  objec 
tively.  As  she  went  about  her  home  in  the 
evening,  or  the  office,  the  workroom,  or  the 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

showrooms  during  the  day,  adjusting  this,  ar 
ranging  that,  smoothing  out  snarls,  solving 
problems  of  business  or  household,  she  was 
very  much  alive,  very  vital,  very  personal,  very 
electric.  In  that  year  there  came  to  her  many 
letters  from  Jock  and  Grace — happy  letters,  all 
of  them,  some  with  an  undertone  of  great  se 
riousness,  as  is  fitting  when  two  people  are  re 
adjusting  their  lives.  Then,  in  spring,  came  the 
news  of  the  baby.  The  telegram  came  to  Em 
ma  as  she  sat  in  her  office  near  the  close  of  a 
busy  day.  As  she  read  it  and  reread  it,  the 
slip  of  paper  became  a  misty  yellow  with  vague 
lines  of  blue  dancing  about  on  it;  then  it  be 
came  a  blur  of  nothing  in  particular,  as  Emma's 
tears  fell  on  it  in  a  little  shower  of  joy  and 
pride  and  wonder  at  the  eternal  miracle. 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes,  mopped  the  tele 
gram  and  her  lace  jabot  impartially,  went 
across  the  hall  and  opened  the  door  marked 
"T.  A.  BUCK." 

T.  A.  looked  up  from  his  desk,  smiled,  held 
out  a  hand. 

"Girl  or  boy?" 

"Girl,  of  course,"  said  Emma  tremulously, 
"and  her  name  is  Emma  McChesney." 
[216] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

T.  A.  stood  up  and  put  an  arm  about  his 
wife's  shoulders. 

"Lean  on  me,  grandma,"  he  said. 

"Fiend!"  retorted  Emma,  and  reread  the 
telegram  happily.  She  folded  it  then,  with  a 
pensive  sigh,  "I  hope  she'll  look  like  Grace. 
But  with  Jock's  eyes.  They  were  wasted  in  a 
man.  At  any  rate,  she  ought  to  be  a  raving, 
tearing  beauty  with  that  father  and  mother." 

"What  about  her  grandmother,  when  it 
comes  to  looks!  Yes,  and  think  of  the  brain 
she'll  have,"  Buck  reminded  her  excitedly. 
"Great  Scott!  With  a  grandmother  who  has 
made  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petticoat 
a  household  word,  and  a  mother  who  was  the 
cleverest  woman  advertising  copy-writer  in  New 
York,  this  young  lady  ought  to  be  a  composite 
Hetty  Green,  Madame  de  Stael,  Hypatia,  and 
Emma  McChesney  Buck.  She'll  be  a  lady  wiz 
ard  of  finance  or  a " 

"She'll  be  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Emma  dis 
puted  calmly.  "That  child  will  be  a  throwback. 
The  third  generation  generally  is.  With  a  mili 
tant  mother  and  a  grandmother  such  as  that 
child  has,  she'll  just  naturally  be  a  clinging  vine. 
She'll  be  a  reversion  to  type.  She'll  be  the 
[217] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

kind  who'll  make  eyes  and  wear  pale  blue  and 
be  crazy  about  new  embroidery-stitches.  Just 
mark  my  words,  T.  A." 

Buck  had  a  brilliant  idea. 

"Why  don't  you  pack  a  bag  and  run  over  to 
Chicago  for  a  few  days  and  see  this  marvel  of 
the  age?" 

But  Emma  shook  her  head. 

"Not  now,  T.  A.  Later.  Let  the  delicate 
machinery  of  that  new  household  adjust  itself 
and  begin  to  run  smoothly  and  sweetly  again. 
Anyone  who  might  come  in  now — even  Jock's 
mother — would  be  only  an  outsider." 

So  she  waited  very  patiently  and  consider 
ately.  There  was  much  to  occupy  her  mind 
that  spring.  Business  was  unexpectedly  and 
gratifyingly  good.  Then,  too,  one  of  their  pet 
dreams  was  being  realized;  they  were  to  have 
their  own  house  in  the  country,  at  Westchester. 
Together  they  had  pored  over  the  plans.  It 
was  to  be  a  house  of  wide,  spacious  verandas, 
of  fireplaces,  of  bookshelves,  of  great,  bright 
windows,  and  white  enamel  and  cheerful  chintz. 
By  the  end  of  May  it  was  finished,  furnished, 
and  complete.  At  which  a  surprising  thing 
happened;  and  yet,  not  so  surprising.  A  demon 

[art] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

of  restlessness  seized  Emma  McChesney  Buck. 
It  had  been  a  busy,  happy  winter,  filled  with 
work.  Now  that  it  was  finished,  there  came 
upon  Emma  and  Buck  that  unconscious  and 
quite  natural  irritation  which  follows  a  long 
winter  spent  together  by  two  people,  no  matter 
how  much  in  harmony.  Emma  pulled  herself 
up  now  and  then,  horrified  to  find  a  rasping  note 
of  impatience  in  her  voice.  Buck  found  him 
self,  once  or  twice,  fairly  caught  in  a  little 
whirlpool  of  ill  temper  of  his  own  making. 
These  conditions  they  discovered  almost  sim 
ultaneously.  And  like  the  comrades  they  were, 
they  talked  it  over  and  came  to  a  sensible  un 
derstanding. 

"We're  a  bit  ragged  and  saw-edged,"  said 
Emma.  "We're  getting  on  each  other's  nerves. 
What  we  need  is  a  vacation  from  each  other. 
This  morning  I  found  myself  on  the  verge  of 
snapping  at  you.  At  you !  Imagine,  T.  A. !" 

Whereupon  Buck  came  forward  with  his  con 
fession. 

"It's  a  couple  of  late  cases  of  spring  fever. 

You've  been  tied  to  this  office  all  winter.    So've 

I.    We  need  a  change.    You've  had  too  much 

petticoats,  too  much  husband,  too  much  cutting- 

[219] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

room  and  sales-room  and  rush  orders  and  busi 
ness  generally.  Too  much  Featherloom  and 
not  enough  foolishness."  He  came  over  and 
put  a  gentle  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder,  a 
thing  strictly  against  the  rules  during  business 
hours.  And  Emma  not  only  permitted  it  but 
reached  over  and  covered  his  hand  with  her 
own.  "You're  tired,  and  you're  a  wee  bit 
nervous;  so  g'wan,"  said  T.  A.,  ever  so  gently, 
and  kissed  his  wife,  "g'wan;  get  out  of  here!" 

And  Emma  got. 

She  went,  not  to  the  mountains  or  the  sea 
shore  but  with  her  face  to  the  west.  In  her 
trunks  were  tiny  garments — garments  pink- 
ribboned,  blue-ribboned,  things  embroidered 
and  scalloped  and  hemstitched  and  hand-made 
and  lacy.  She  went  looking  less  grandmotherly 
than  ever  in  her  smart,  blue  tailor  suit,  her 
rakish  hat,  her  quietly  correct  gloves,  and  slim 
shoes  and  softly  becoming  jabot.  Her  husband 
had  got  her  a  compartment,  had  laden  her 
down  with  books,  magazines,  fruit,  flowers, 
candy.  Five  minutes  before  the  train  pulled 
out,  Emma  looked  about  the  little  room  and 
sighed,  even  while  she  smiled. 

"You're  an  extravagant  boy,  T.  A.    I  look  as 
[220] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

if  I  were  equipped  for  a  dash  to  the  pole  instead 
of  an  eighteen-hour  run  to  Chicago.  But  I  love 
you  for  it.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  confess  how  I  like  having  a  whole  compart 
ment  just  for  myself.  You  see,  a  compartment 
always  will  spell  luxury  to  me.  There  were  all 
those  years  on  the  road,  you  know,  when  I  often 
considered  myself  in  luck  to  get  an  upper  on  a 
local  of  a  branch  line  that  threw  you  around 
in  your  berth  like  a  bean  in  a  tin  can  every 
time  the  engineer  stopped  or  started." 

Buck  looked  at  his  watch,  then  stooped  in 
farewell.  Quite  suddenly  they  did  not  want  to 
part.  They  had  grown  curiously  used  to  each 
other,  these  two.  Emma  found  herself  cling 
ing  to  this  man  with  the  tender  eyes,  and  Buck 
held  her  close,  regardless  of  train-schedules. 
Emma  rushed  him  to  the  platform  and  watched 
him,  wide-eyed,  as  he  swung  off  the  slowly 
moving  train. 

"Come  on  along!"  she  called,  almost  tear 
fully. 

Buck  looked  up  at  her.  At  her  trim,  erect 
figure,  at  her  clear  youthful  coloring,  at  the 
brightness  of  her  eye. 

"If  you  want  to  get  a  reputation  for  comedy," 
[221] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  £  CO. 

he  laughed,  "tell  somebody  on  that  train  that 
you're  going  to  visit  your  granddaughter." 

Jock  met  her  at  the  station  in  Chicago  and 
drove  her  home  in  a  very  dapper  and  glittering 
black  runabout. 

"Grace  wanted  to  come  down,"  he  explained, 
as  they  sped  along,  "but  they're  changing  the 
baby's  food  or  something,  and  she  didn't  want 
to  leave.  You  know  those  nurses."  Emma  felt 
a  curious  little  pang.  This  was  her  boy,  her 
baby,  talking  about  his  baby  and  nurses.  She 
had  a  sense  of  unreality.  He  turned  to  her 
with  shining  eyes.  "That's  a  stunning  get-up, 
Blonde.  Honestly,  you're  a  wiz,  mother. 
Grace  has  told  all  her  friends  that  you're  com 
ing,  and  their  mothers  are  going  to  call.  But, 
good  Lord,  you  look  like  my  younger  sister,  on 
the  square  you  do !" 

The  apartment  reached,  it  seemed  to  Emma 
that  she  floated  across  the  walk  and  up  the 
stairs,  so  eagerly  did  her  heart  cry  out  for  a 
glimpse  of  this  little  being  who  was  flesh  of  her 
flesh.  Grace,  a  little  pale  but  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  met  them  at  the  door.  Her  arms 
went  about  Emma's  neck.  Then  she  stood  her 
handsome  mother-in-law  off  and  gazed  at  her. 
[222] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

"You  wonder  I  How  lovely  you  look !  Good 
heavens,  are  they  wearing  that  kind  of  hat  in 
New  York!  And  those  collars!  I  haven't 
seen  a  thing  like  'em  here.  'East  is  east  and 
West  is  west  and '  " 

"Where's  that  child?"  demanded  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  Buck.  "Where's  my  baby?" 

"Sh-sh-sh-sh!"  came  in  a  sibilant  duet  from 
Grace  and  Jock.  "Not  now.  She's  sleeping. 
We  were  up  with  her  for  three  hours  last  night. 
It  was  the  new  food.  She's  not  used  to  it  yet." 

"But,  you  foolish  children,  can't  I  peek  at 
her?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  said  Grace  hastily.  "We 
never  go  into  her  room  when  she's  asleep. 
This  is  your  room,  mother  dear.  And  just  as 
soon  as  she  wakes  up — this  is  your  bath — 
you'll  want  to  freshen  up.  Dear  me;  who 
could  have  hung  the  baby's  little  shirt  here? 
The  nurse,  I  suppose.  If  I  don't  attend  to 
every  little  thing " 

Emma  took  off  her  hat  and  smoothed  her 
hair  with  light,  deft  fingers.  She  turned  a 
smiling  face  toward  Jock  and  Grace  standing 
there  in  the  doorway. 

"Now  don't  bother,  dear.  If  you  knew  how 
[223] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

I  love  having  that  little  shirt  to  look  at!  And 
I've  such  things  in  my  trunk !  Wait  till  you  see 
them." 

So  she  possessed  her  soul  in  patience  for  one 
hour,  two  hours.  At  the  end  of  the  second 
hour,  a  little  wail  went  up.  Grace  vanished 
down  the  hall.  Emma,  her  heart  beating  very 
fast,  followed  her.  A  moment  later  she  was 
bending  over  a  very  pink  morsel  with  very 
blue  eyes  and  she  was  saying,  over  and  over  in 
a  rapture  of  delightful  idiocy : 

"Say  hello  to  your  gran-muzzer,  yes  her  is ! 
Say,  hello,  granny !"  And  her  longing  arms 
reached  down  to  take  up  her  namesake. 

"Not  now!"  Grace  said  hastily.  "We  never 
play  with  her  just  before  feeding-time.  We 
find  that  it  excites  her,  and  that's  bad  for  her 
digestion." 

"Dear  me!"  marveled  Emma.     "I  don't  re 
member  worrying  about  Jock's  digestion  when, 
he  was  two  and  a  half  months  old!" 

It  was  thus  that  Emma  McChesney  Buck, 
for  many  years  accustomed  to  leadership, 
learned  to  follow  humbly  and  in  silence.  She 
had  always  been  the  orbit  about  which  her 
world  revolved.  Years  of  brilliant  success,  of 
[224] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

triumphant  execution,  had  not  spoiled  her,  or 
made  her  offensively  dictatorial.  But  they  had 
taught  her  a  certain  self-confidence ;  had  accus 
tomed  her  to  a  degree  of  deference  from 
others.  Now  she  was  the  humblest  of  the  satel 
lites  revolving  about  this  sun  of  the  household. 
She  learned  to  tiptoe  when  small  Emma  Mc- 
Chesney  was  sleeping.  She  learned  that  the 
modern  mother  does  not  approve  of  the  hold 
ing  of  a  child  in  one's  arms,  no  matter  how 
those  arms  might  be  aching  to  feel  the  frail 
weight  of  the  soft,  sweet  body.  She  who  had 
brought  a  child  into  the  world,  who  had  had 
to  train  that  child  alone,  had  raised  him  single- 
handed,  had  educated  him,  denied  herself  for 
him,  made  a  man  of  him,  now  found  herself  all 
ignorant  of  twentieth  century  child-raising 
methods.  She  learned  strange  things  about 
barley-water  and  formulae  and  units  and  olive 
oil,  and  orange  juice  and  ounces  and  farina, 
and  bath-thermometers  and  blue-and-white 
striped  nurses  who  view  grandmothers  with  a 
coldly  disapproving  and  pitying  eye. 

She  watched  the  bathing-process  for  the  first 
time  with  wonder  as  frank  as  it  was  unfeigned. 

"And  I  thought  I  was  a  modern  woman!" 

[225] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

she  marveled.  "When  I  used  to  bathe  Jock  I 
tested  the  temperature  of  the  water  with  my  el 
bow;  and  I  know  my  mother  used  to  test  my 
bath-water  when  I  was  a  baby  by  putting  me 
into  it.  She  used  to  say  that  if  I  turned  blue 
she  knew  the  water  was  too  cold,  and  if  I  turned 
red  she  knew  it  was  too  hot." 

"Humph!"  snorted  the  blue-and-white 
striped  nurse,  and  rightly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  that  your  method  isn't  the 
proper  one,"  Emma  hastened  to  say  humbly, 
and  watched  Grace  scrutinize  the  bath-ther 
mometer  with  critical  eye. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  there  came  calling 
the  mothers  of  Grace's  young-women  friends, 
as  Jock  had  predicted.  Charming  elderly  wom 
en,  most  of  them,  all  of  them  gracious  and 
friendly  with  that  generous  friendliness  which 
is  of  the  West.  But  each  fell  into  one  of  two 
classes — the  placid,  black-silk,  rather  vague 
woman  of  middle  age,  whose  face  has  the  blank 
look  of  the  sheltered  woman  and  who  wrinkles 
early  from  sheer  lack  of  sufficient  activity  or 
vital  interest  in  life ;  and  the  wiry,  well-dressed, 
assertive  type  who  talked  about  her  club  work 
and  her  charities,  her  voice  always  taking  the 

[226] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

rising  inflection  at  the  end  of  a  sentence,  as 
though  addressing  a  meeting.  When  they  met 
Emma,  it  was  always  with  a  little  startled  look 
of  surprise,  followed  by  something  that  bor 
dered  on  disapproval.  Emma,  the  keenly  ob 
servant,  watching  them,  felt  vaguely  uncom 
fortable.  She  tried  to  be  politely  interested  in 
what  they  had  to  say,  but  she  found  her 
thoughts  straying  a  thousand  miles  away  to  the 
man  whom  she  loved  and  who  loved  her,  to  the 
big,  busy  factory  with  its  humming  machinery 
and  its  capable  office  staff,  to  the  tasteful,  com 
fortable,  spacious  house  that  she  had  helped  to 
plan;  to  all  the  vital  absorbing,  fascinating  and 
constructive  interests  with  which  her  busy  New 
York  life  was  filled  to  overflowing. 

So  she  looked  smilingly  at  the  plump,  gray- 
haired  ladies  who  came  a-calling  in  their  smart 
black  with  the  softening  lace-effect  at  the  throat, 
and  they  looked,  smiling  politely,  too,  at  this 
slim,  erect,  pink-cheeked,  bright-eyed  woman 
with  the  shining  golden  hair  and  the  firm, 
smooth  skin,  and  the  alert  manner;  and  in  their 
eyes  was  that  distrust  which  lurks  in  the  eye^ 
of  a  woman  as  she  looks  at  another  woman  of 
her  own  age  who  doesn't  show  it. 
[227] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

In  the  weeks  of  her  stay,  Emma  managed, 
little  by  little,  to  take  the  place  of  second 
mother  in  the  household.  She  had  tact  and 
finesse  and  cleverness  enough  even  for  that 
herculean  feat.  Grace's  pale  cheeks  and  last 
year's  wardrobe  made  her  firm  in  her  stand. 

"Grace,"  she  said,  one  day,  "listen  to  me: 
I  want  you  to  get  some  clothes — a  lot  of  them, 
and  foolish  ones,  all  of  them.  Babies  are  all 
very  well,  but  husbands  have  some  slight  right 
to  consideration.  The  clock,  for  you,  is  an  in 
strument  devised  to  cut  up  the  day  and  night 
into  your  baby's  eating-  and  sleeping-periods.  I 
want  you  to  get  some  floppy  hats  with  roses  on 
Jem,  and  dresses  with  ruffles  and  sashes.  I'll 
stay  home  and  guard  your  child  from  vandals 
and  ogres.  Scat!" 

Her  stay  lengthened  to  four  weeks,  five 
weeks,  six.  She  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
the  roses  blooming  in  Grace's  cheeks  as  well  as 
in  her  hats.  She  learned  to  efface  her  own  per 
sonality  that  others  might  shine  who  had  a  bet 
ter  right.  And  she  lost  some  of  her  own  bright 
color,  a  measure  of  her  own  buoyancy.  In  the 
sixth  week  she  saw,  in  her  mirror,  something 
that  caused  her  to  lean  forward,  to  stare  for 

[228] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

one  intent  moment,  then  to  shrink  back,  wide- 
eyed.  A  little  sunburst,  hair-fine  but  undeni 
able,  was  etched  delicately  about  the  corners  of 
her  eyes.  Fifteen  minutes  later,  she  had  wired 
New  York  thus : 

Home  Friday.     Do  you  still  love  me?      EMMA. 

When  she  left,  little  Emma  McChesney  was 
sleeping,  by  a  curious  coincidence,  as  she  had 
been  when  Emma  arrived,  so  that  she  could  not 
have  the  satisfaction  of  a  last  pressure  of  the 
lips  against  the  rose-petal  cheek.  She  had  to 
content  herself  with  listening  close  to  the  door 
in  the  vain  hope  of  catching  a  last  sound  of  the 
child's  breathing. 

She  was  laden  with  fruits  and  flowers  and 
magazines  on  her  departure,  as  she  had  been 
when  she  left  New  York.  But,  somehow,  these 
things  did  not  seem  to  interest  her.  After  the 
train  had  left  Chicago's  smoky  buildings  far  be 
hind,  she  sat  very  still  for  a  long  time,  her  eyes 
shut.  She  told  herself  that  she  felt  and  looked 
very  old,  very  tired,  very  unlike  the  Emma  Mc 
Chesney  Buck  who  had  left  New  York  a  few 
weeks  before.  Then  she  thought  of  T.  A.,  and 
her  eyes  unclosed  and  she  smiled.  By  the  time 
[229] 


EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO. 

the  train  had  reached  Cleveland  the  little  lines 
seemed  miraculously  to  have  disappeared,  some 
how,  from  about  her  eyes.  When  they  left  the 
One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street  station 
she  was  a  creature  transformed.  And  when 
the  train  rolled  into  the  great  down-town  shed, 
Emma  was  herself  again,  bright-eyed,  alert,  vi 
brating  energy. 

There  was  no  searching,  no  hesitation.  Her 
eyes  met  his,  and  his  eyes  found  hers  with  a 
quite  natural  magnetism. 

"Oh,  T.  A.,  my  dear,  my  dear!  I  didn't 
know  you  were  so  handsome !  And  how  beau 
tiful  New  York  is !  Tell  me :  Have  I  grown 
old?  Havel?" 

T.  A.  bundled  her  into  a  taxi  and  gazed  at 
her  in  some  alarm. 

"You!  Old!  What  put  that  nonsense  into 
your  head?  You're  tired,  dear.  We'll  go 
home,  and  you'll  have  a  good  rest,  and  a  quiet 
evening " 

"Rest!"  echoed  Emma,  and  sat  up  very 
straight,  her  cheeks  pink.  "Quiet  evening !  T. 
A.  Buck,  listen  to  me.  I've  had  nothing  but 
rest  and  quiet  evenings  for  six  weeks.  I  feel  a 
million  years  old.  One  more  day  of  being  a 
[230] 


AN  ETUDE  FOR  EMMA 

grandmother  and  I  should  have  died !  Do  you 
know  what  I'm  going  to  do  ?  I'm  going  to  stop 
at  Fifth  Avenue  this  minute  and  buy  a  hat  that's 
a  thousand  times  too  young  for  me,  and  you're 
going  with  me  to  tell  me  that  it  isn't.  And 
then  you'll  take  me  somewhere  to  dinner — a 
place  with  music  and  pink  shades.  And  then  I 
want  to  see  a  wicked  play,  preferably  with  a 
runway  through  the  center  aisle  for  the  chorus. 
And  then  I  want  to  go  somewhere  and  dance ! 
Get  that,  dear?  Dance !  Tell  me,  T.  A.— tell 
me  the  truth :  Do  you  think  I'm  old,  and  faded, 
and  wistful  and  grandmotherly?" 

"I  think,"  said  T.  A.  Buck,  "that  you're  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  wonderful,  the  most 
adorable  woman  in  the  world,  and  the  more 
foolish  your  new  hat  is  and  the  later  we  dance 
the  better  I'll  like  it.  It  has  been  awful  with 
out  you,  Emma." 

Emma  closed  her  eyes  and  there  came  from 
the  depths  of  her  heart  a  great  sigh  of  relief, 
and  comfort  and  gratification. 

"Oh,  T.  A.,  my  dear,  it's  all  very  well  to 
drown  your  identity  in  the  music  of  the  or 
chestra,  but  there's  nothing  equal  to  the  soul- 
filling  satisfaction  that  you  get  in  solo  work." 


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